Fire of Ages (The Powers of Amur Book 6)

by J. S. Bangs

  “We must all leave the city, Mother,” he said. “We were supposed to leave days ago. Everyone who can’t—”

  “No, never!” Amashi said. “Ulaur will save the House of the Ruin.”

  “But the Heir has ordered—”

  “You tell that young man to leave me alone. No matter what old Cauratha said, he’s—”

  Daladham broke in. “Excuse me, I have to meet with Bhudman shortly, and….”

  Veshta turned, seeing Daladham for the first time, and his face flushed with frustration. “Yes, I know. Bhudman is already here. You can go down to him. There.”

  He pointed to a door propped open at the far corner of the courtyard, opening into what seemed to be a deep cellar. The sun was setting, and in the long evening shadows the door opened into total darkness. Only after Daladham crossed to the door did he realize the stairs descended much deeper than any storage cellar, and the walls of smoothed and soot-blackened stone were older than any he had seen. As he stepped down the stairs, he heard the argument start up again behind him.

  When he reached the crypt he found it well-lit with oil lamps, one on each corner of the altar stone, lighting a fresco of Manjur and the serpent in bright yellow light. Bhudman sat on the bench beneath the mural, his hands playing absently over a pentacle charm in his hands. He greeted Daladham with a silent nod of his head, and then returned to his meditation.

  Daladham’s gaze went to the mural of Manjur over Bhudman’s head. He had never been down here before. In principle, he wasn’t supposed to enter into the Uluriya holy places, as he belonged to the Amya dhorsha, and even with the rapprochement between the dhorsha and the saghada, these separations were observed. But Bhudman seemed a lot less concerned with purity lately. And the image overhead was the only appropriate one for the topic of the day.

  Manjur held a beam of light like a lance and pierced the writhing figure of the serpent below the earth. His face was worn away by centuries of smoke and dust. The black bolt of the sky over his head was speckled with stars.

  “Will the Heir listen?” he asked Bhudman.

  Bhudman breathed deeply. “I don’t know,” he said.

  “He put himself on the line for our unification of the dhorsha and the saghada. This is similar.”

  “This is… much worse,” Bhudman said. “To say that Ulaur rules the Powers was acceptable to the saghada, barely. To say that the one whom the dhorsha know as Kushma is the same as Ulaur is another matter.”

  Daladham murmured. “But you convinced me.”

  “You are a scholar. You understood the reasons that I gave.”

  “You don’t believe Navran-dar can appreciate scholarship?”

  Bhudman shifted atop the stone bench and tapped his cane in the dust of the crypt. “Let’s see what the Heir says.”

  Daladham began pacing.

  Cautious footsteps echoed down the stone stairs through the darkness of the crypt, and the glow of another man holding a lamp approached them. A moment later Navran’s face grew clear. In the light his features took on a ghastly cast, the reddish lamp casting shadows on the burn scars across his cheeks, making his serious expression seem ominous and dire. He glanced at the black book lying on the altar and set his lamp down before it.

  Daladham and Bhudman bowed. Navran greeted them with a nod. He stared at the book.

  “I was wondering when I would hear about this,” he said. He looked at Bhudman. “You found something else while we were in Jaitha?”

  “I did, my lord and king,” Bhudman said. “Something we should keep secret.”

  Navran grunted. “This book already upset enough of the saghada.”

  “Which is why I suggest we keep it a secret.”

  It was impolite to pace in front of the king. Daladham clasped the edge of the altar stone and drummed his fingers against it instead. Navran looked at him.

  “You know?”

  “Bhudman showed me,” Daladham said. The speed of his pulse began to rise. “I have verified his work.”

  Navran stared. He didn’t say anything.

  “We’ve begun translating the final portion of the book,” Bhudman said.

  “Ah.”

  “And it illuminates many mysteries.” Bhudman hesitated. “I know why the sacrifice to Kushma was rejected. And I know who the Kushmaya dhorsha are.”

  Daladham stepped up to the ebony book case, undid the golden hasp, and pulled the cover off. A bamboo rod sat between two of the pages near the end of the book. He gently lifted out the ancient, palm-leaf pages and set them in the open part of the cover, revealing the page near the end of the book. A second, newer page had been inserted here, covered with Daladham’s own tight handwriting.

  “Bhudman and I translated it, you see,” Daladham said, lifting the page out of the book. “I could read it, but you wouldn’t understand. Not even Bhudman and I would understand, not really.”

  “Then how did you translate it?”

  “Very carefully,” Daladham said. “The book is written in the temple dialect but… older. The words are more complex. The grammar is difficult.”

  Navran breathed heavily and crossed his arms over his chest. “I don’t need the details. Tell me what you found.”

  Bhudman answered quietly. “The final portion of the book talks about Kushma. But it ascribes to him a certain name. The book calls him Kushma Ulaur.”

  Daladham stopped. Navran watched him, his face stony and unreadable. Bhudman rubbed the wood of his cane.

  “Is that all?” Navran asked.

  “Is that all?”

  Navran let out a chuckle. “I didn’t mean to suggest it was a small thing. But was there something else?”

  “The part we have translated records a version of the story of Kushma Ulaur striking down the serpent. It combines elements from Kushma’s hymns with what the Uluriya record of Manjur and Ulaur. And the name Kushma Ulaur, when we deciphered its etymology—”

  Navran raised a hand. “I believe you. But you mean to say that….” He lapsed into silence for a moment, his hand grasping at the air as if looking for a way to complete his thought.

  Daladham closed the clasp over the book and put the pin back into the hasp. All told, Navran was taking it better than he thought he would. Bhudman’s cane tapped against the stone.

  “Kushma Ulaur,” Navran said softly. He looked at Daladham and spoke in a tone that bordered on accusation. “So what would you have me do? Paint fanged, bloody images of Ulaur in the bhilami?”

  Daladham shook his head. “I wonder,” he said softly, “if the gruesome appearance of Kushma is not driven by the enmity between the Uluriya and the dhorsha. When the Uluriya were estranged, perhaps the ancient dhorsha chose to depict the Power as terrifying in order to discredit him.”

  Navran snorted. “Small comfort.”

  “This is not the important thing,” Bhudman said.

  “No,” Daladham agreed. “This is the important thing: We have been looking for the Kushmaya dhorsha. And we have found them.”

  “Of course,” Navran said. He began to pace, mirroring Daladham’s earlier anxiety. “And as the chief of the Uluriya—”

  A voice broke through their discussion. Someone called from the top of the stairs. The sound of steps echoed through the dry crypt. Navran-dar sounded the cry again.

  Navran straightened and turned. A moment later a messenger appeared in the lamplight around the altar. A moment of surprise flickered across the man’s face as he glanced at Bhudman and Daladham, but then he dropped to his knees.

  “Navran-dar, my lord and king, the Devoured approach.”

  Navran whirled. “Many?”

  The man nodded. “The sentries spotted them. A large force, with the banners of the Red Men among them. They mean to take the city.”

  “How far?”

  “The sentries spotted them a ways off. But they’re marching fast. They’ll be here by dark.”

  “Too soon. We had more to do,” Navran said. He hesitated, glanced at
the two priests, then pointed at the messenger. “Leave us for a moment.”

  The messenger retreated. Navran leaned against the stone of the altar and looked at Bhudman and Daladham with a grim expression, his eyes hooded in shadow. He spoke in a whisper. “What can you do for me?”

  “Turn back the Devoured with the name of Ulaur,” Bhudman said. “With the blessed water from the bhilami and—”

  “Do it,” Navran said. He raised a finger. “But don’t tell any others about the name of Kushma Ulaur.”

  Bhudman and Daladham shook their heads in unison.

  “We’ll take any weapon against the Devoured we can get,” Navran repeated. “If the blessings of Kushma Ulaur will drive them back, then bring it. Meet me at the walls.”

  He turned and marched swiftly away into the darkness.

  Daladham and Bhudman bowed and watched him leave. Suddenly alone again, the glow of the lamps set around the altar seemed dim and unsteady.

  “I must go,” Bhudman whispered. “Visit the bhilami. They will need me at the walls—”

  “Will you need help?”

  Bhudman breathed heavily, then rose to his feet, leaning on his cane. “No, let me go by myself. You must take the book.”

  Daladham’s hands went to the ebony cover of the book, and he clutched it to his chest. “There are many yet to evacuate. As much help as—”

  “You must take the book in case I don’t return,” Bhudman said more forcefully.

  Daladham’s arguments died in his throat. “I understand,” he croaked. “Veshta and his family are above. I’ll leave with them.”

  Bhudman nodded. “Swiftly. Above all, you must reach Patakshar with the book.”

  Navran

  The ram’s horn tore through the night above Virnas. The air in the courtyard of Veshta’s house seemed to buzz. He heard clatters of rapid movement through the halls around him, the warning reaching Veshta and his family. He heard no more arguing. Perhaps even the recalcitrant Amashi had been persuaded to leave.

  “They are waiting for you on the walls,” the messenger said. “We should have a few hours before they actually—”

  “Navran-dar!” a voice called behind him. Navran stopped. One of the thikratta hurled himself down the stairs from the second floor, saffron robes billowing behind him. Amabhu, the small talkative one. “My lord and king, I want to come with.”

  “What?” Navran asked. “Come where?”

  “To the walls.” Amabhu reached the bottom, crossed the half-dozen paces to Navran and fell onto his knees. “I know the mastery of fire. I can help.”

  “You have the mastery of fire? Why haven’t you mentioned this before?”

  “Well,” Amabhu said, suddenly embarrassed. “I am only… that is… perhaps mastery is the wrong word. I have studied it. I can create fire if needed. Only at a touch, though.”

  “Only at a touch?”

  He lifted his face and grasped Navran’s hands. “I will have to touch the Devoured to make them burn. I can’t project fire. And I’ve had little chance to practice—”

  “Enough,” Navran said. He glanced to the second floor of the estate. “Where is Caupana?”

  “With Srithi, preparing to leave. Caupana has farsight but no fire, please—”

  “You can come,” Navran said. “So long as Caupana and Srithi leave. Now follow me.”

  “To the walls?”

  “First to the palace.”

  Amabhu stood and followed.

  They found the palace busy with men running about—no women, no serving girls, those had all been sent away—only the men who stayed in defense, all holding spears and short swords and grim expressions. The sun was down now, and the waxing moon shone ochre in the east. At the door he met the new captain of the guard, a man named Raksham who had replaced Dastha and Kaudhara, the old Horn of Virnas. Raksham bowed snappily to Navran.

  “The fires,” Navran said. “Are they lit?”

  “Yes, my lord and king,” Raksham said. “We saw them coming with plenty of time—the stars upon the brightness of the moon—and we put torches to the tinder heaps as soon as they were close. We have high blazes all along the north walls now, except in one place.”

  “One place?”

  Raksham grimaced. “There is one place where—I don’t know what happened. The fire didn’t catch, or caught slowly. A few of the swiftest Devoured got to the base of the wall and scattered the wood before the blaze was too hot for them.”

  “Climbing up the walls?”

  “They will be soon.”

  “Get men there,” Navran said. “I’m coming.”

  “My lord and king, you should evacuate.”

  “Bring me my spear,” Navran said, ignoring the man’s entirely reasonably suggestion. “The fires were never going to give us more than an hour or so, anyway. We’ll hold the wall while the last of the city crosses the Maudhu, and then we run like mad. And do something with Amabhu here.” He pointed to the thikratta standing nervously behind him.

  “Do something?”

  “He knows fire. Give him something to do.”

  Raksham nodded. He gestured for Amabhu to follow, then he bolted into the courtyard shouting. A moment later a page brought Navran his kit: a metal helmet, a polished bronze short sword, and a leather cuirass shining with bronze studs. It only took a few breaths for the page to get Navran dressed, and he joined Raksham, Amabhu, and a group of thirty men in the courtyard.

  Raksham bowed to Navran as he approached. “The king and the Heir of Manjur fights with us!” he shouted to the men, and the men cheered in response. Navran nodded to them. Raksham stepped aside.

  Ah, yes, he would have to say something. He was never very good at this part. He cleared his throat. “We are not here to defeat the Devoured,” he said. No, that wasn’t very inspiring. He tried again. “We are not here to die. We are here to live, and to let others live. Don’t throw yourselves uselessly into the grasp of those who cannot be killed. Knock them off the walls, throw them into the fire, and break their limbs if you can. Every moment that we delay them will save the lives of our fellow citizens. Ulaur and the faithful Powers save us.”

  They marched out. Raksham had gotten word of where the breach was, and he led them sharply to the north wall. They cut through the Uluriya district, and Navran was heartened to see several saghada guiding the evacuation. Well-organized, rehearsed, just as planned. By the stars, he would get everyone out of Virnas safe, and if Ulaur helped them, they might even return.

  As soon as the men caught sight of the wall, they started to run. “Up!” Raksham shouted.

  Navran ran and was the first to reach the ladder. He took two rungs at a time and leaped onto the stone battlement with a bellow of anger.

  The heat hit him first. The bonfires at the base of the wall had been lit, sending up a sheet of shimmering heat that made the top of the battlement feel like a bronze forge. He glimpsed a solid wall of fire between the leaf-shaped crenellations, except for a gap about three yards wide where the fire died for lack of fuel. The tinder in that gap had been scattered and strewn about, and the Devoured pushed through like a flood.

  They had ladders with them, which they leaned against the wall and attempted to climb. The soldiers of Virnas swiped at them with their spears, knocking them back. Navran joined them, and he saw in the corner of his vision the rest of Raksham’s group taking places atop the wall. Amabhu stood next to Navran nervously.

  Navran thrust a spear into the chest of one Devoured and sent him hurtling to the ground. Another was right behind him. This one he bashed aside, and the man fell screaming into the flames.

  Amabhu grabbed a man by the neck. For a moment Navran glimpsed them grappling, Amabhu’s face wracked in concentration. A flame flickered, then died. Amabhu cried out in alarm. Navran stepped forward to help—but then the flames bloomed along his palms, scorching the Devoured man’s face. A moment later his whole body was wrapped in fire, and Amabhu pushed him over the crenellation to th
e ground, where the fire consumed him.

  For a while they lost themselves in a mad sequence of thrusts and blows, knocking back the Devoured as they neared the top of the wall, Amabhu doing his part spreading fire whenever someone came within his reach. But there were always more.

  They were coming faster now. He saw them bringing shapes out of the darkness. Not ladders, but crates and jars and debris they had pillaged from the outlying villages. They stacked them at the foot of the wall and climbed. Navran knocked a Devoured woman back to the ground, but it was useless—there were too many. With the addition of the scaffolding of junk they had constructed, they were coming up at every point in the gap.

  He stepped back and looked to both sides. Devoured atop the walls. They couldn’t stop them.

  “Fall back!” he shouted. He grabbed Amabhu by the shoulder and shoved him toward the ladder, then scrambled down the rails as quickly as he could. His feet hit the stones of the street. “Run!”

  The defenders of Virnas began to scamper down after him. But the Devoured were quicker: they didn’t bother with the ladder. They jumped the four yards from the battlement to the ground.

  One landed next to Navran. Navran drew his short sword, swung, and caught the man in the face with the flat of the blade. The man spun and fell to the ground, momentarily stunned. Amabhu came forward, put both hands on his back, and summoned a gout of flame that swallowed him whole.

  Amabhu’s face was covered with sweat, his hands trembled, and he staggered past like a man drunk. Navran caught him and helped him upright.

  “Run!” he shouted again. Most of the defenders were down now. He couldn’t see Raksham, but Raksham would have to take care of himself. The Devoured were coming over the wall.

  Then he heard Raksham’s voice behind him “To the docks!” A moment of relief. But there was no time to for gladness.