Chapter 16
The casteless village had been destroyed. Every last one of the non-people had been put to death. Man, woman, and child. As the Law required.
Bharatas didn’t give a damn about the Law. To the ocean with the Law. For him, these casteless had died because they were in league with Black-Hearted Ashok, his vile prophetess, and their false god. That was all the reason he required. He’d used mighty Akerselem to cut down the non-people just as cruelly as Ashok’s rebellion had murdered his mother, his father, his brothers, his sisters, and all the other innocent victims in Chakma. He’d shown these casteless as much mercy as Ashok had showed his paltan at the battle of Dhakhantar, where the Black Heart had killed all his comrades and then left Bharatas for dead on the plains.
The mighty ancestor blade Akersalem had taken many lives today, but they weren’t really people, so they didn’t count. Those brave enough to fight had never had a chance. No mortal could stand against an ancestor blade. This hadn’t been battle, but a slaughter.
And the process would continue, day after day, until Great House Akershan ran out of casteless blood to spill or Ashok Vadal revealed himself.
The flea-ridden yurts had been set on fire. The bodies would be left where they fell, to feed the buzzards and make the grass grow tall next season.
Some of his men approached, and they were dragging a prisoner between them. They hurled the man into the dirt at Bharatas’ feet, so they could give their house’s bearer a proper salute. Bharatas returned the gesture. He was far younger than most of his veteran soldiers, but they’d learned to show him great respect, for Bharatas fought with an intensity and cunning that few other warriors could match, and that had been before he had been picked by one of the mightiest weapons in the world to be its bearer.
Bharatas studied the man, lying on his side, stripped of his clothing, with his hands tied behind his back. “What’s this?”
“A rebel, found hidden among the fish-eaters, but he’s a whole man. Worker caste. It appears he was teaching them how to fight.”
“Ah. But what does a worker know about fighting?” Bharatas asked.
“More than you, cowards,” the prisoner spat. “Massacring the helpless.”
One of his warriors promptly kicked the man in the ribs, but then Bharatas reached out and grabbed him by the armor before he could give him the other boot. “Hold. He’s not wrong.”
“But, sir—”
“Stand away. I want to talk with him.”
The warriors did as they were told, and they left their bearer in the middle of the burning village with the rebel. Bharatas lowered himself and sat cross-legged in the dirt, waiting for the man to quit coughing. The air was filled with rising smoke, so it was good to sink below it. Bits of trapped moisture turned to steam and popped inside the burning homes.
When it seemed like the prisoner could breathe again, Bharatas said, “Your description of what we’re doing here is accurate. This is cowardly. This isn’t a proper war. It’s a waste. It brings dishonor on my house, and shame to my caste.”
“Then stop,” the rebel gasped. “I beg you, leave the casteless alone.”
“I wish I could, but I can’t,” Bharatas said truthfully. “I don’t want to fight helpless fish-eaters. I want to face Ashok Vadal and the Sons of the Black Sword. That is my purpose. These are just the best things available. He vowed to protect the non-people. So I slay them and await his response.”
“Ashok is dead.”
“A lie.”
“It’s true,” the captive wheezed. “Ashok died at Garo, killed by Devedas and thrown into the sea.”
Bharatas just chuckled. “Do you know how I know you’re lying? I was one of the best duelists in Akershan.” He undid the tie beneath his chin, removed his helmet, and placed it on the ground next to him, then ran one hand through his sweat-soaked hair to display the gigantic scar where his scalp had been peeled from his skull. “Despite that, Ashok Vadal gave me this. And we were even on horseback, and no Vadal man should be able to match an Akershani on horseback.”
“I’m from Dev.”
“I don’t care. As I was saying, Ashok did that to me. He bested me, after he’d already killed many of my brothers, and they didn’t even wear him down. Afterward I thought that he must have been using his black steel blade, but it wasn’t until I took up Akerselem and saw what it could do to the human body that I understood Ashok hadn’t even bothered. He used a normal sword. If he’d struck me with Angruvadal that hard, it would’ve split my head in half, right through my helm, and considering how strong he’s supposed to be probably through my entire body and not stopped until Angruvadal was embedded in my horse.”
“I wish he had.”
“Heh, you haven’t met that horse. Kurdan is a good girl. Losing her would’ve been a shame.” Bharatas waited, but the worker was too frightened to react. “Oh come now, that was amusing. What I’m saying is that I know Ashok’s not dead.” He touched the grisly scar again. “Because I’d feel it here if he was. Bearer to bearer. I think vowing to take Ashok’s life is why my sword chose me. It approved of my greater purpose…Relax, worker. I don’t want to kill you.”
“Liar.”
“No offense is taken. I understand why you’d think that, but I’m not a liar. I need to know where the rebellion is. Tell me how to find them, and you can go. Walk back to Dev. Akershan forgives you. Oceans, I’ll give you a strong horse and enough rations to get home. I don’t care about you at all. I want Ashok Vadal, or his prophet bitch will do.”
That sparked a fresh rage in the prisoner. “Don’t speak of Thera like that. She’s the Voice of the Forgotten!”
And she was responsible for the death of everyone Bharatas had ever loved. That false prophet’s ambitions had ruined him. Once a happy warrior, seeing what had become of Chakma had killed the Bharatas who had been and left a hollow thing behind. He’d filled that husk with anger. Even after being chosen by an ancestor blade, the greatest honor a warrior could imagine, instead of triumph all he could feel was an ashen emptiness and a desire for revenge.
“So you’re a true believer, then, in the old gods?”
“I am,” the worker professed with far more dignity than a naked, beaten and bound man should muster. “We remember what the rest of you have forgotten.”
“Your prophet, this Thera, she sent you here to help these casteless, didn’t she?”
He said nothing. That was answer enough.
“I was told the fanatics in Chakma did terrible things to my sister, before they cut her throat and threw her body over the wall. They hung my little brother in the street, like some kind of…example. To warn against what, I don’t know. He was only ten years old.” Bharatas paused to wipe the sudden moisture from his eyes. “But I don’t blame you for that.”
The worker seemed surprised by Bharatas’ raw honesty. “I give you my word, warrior. Those atrocities were the work of Pankaj, a false prophet, who denied the commands of the true prophet. She commanded there was to be no abuse against any who didn’t raise a sword against us. No raping. No looting. No arson. She’s benevolent and kind.”
“She sounds pleasant. Show me where she hides and you may go free.”
“Never!”
“Why are you worried? If your gods are real, surely they’ll protect her from the likes of me. I have a thousand riders with me, but what’s an army to a god? Show me the way, or I will have no choice but to have you tortured until you talk.” Bharatas looked him in the eyes, so that the worker could see this was no trick. There was no sophistry, just a statement of things that would come to pass. “I plead with you, worker, don’t make me do that. There’s no honor it. It’s an awful process. The constant screaming in camp is bad for morale, and it scares the horses. It’s pointless suffering, because all men break eventually, no matter how strong they think they are. You will talk. Everyone does.”
The worker was silent for a long time, pondering his fate. “Ashok Vadal wouldn’t break.”
Bharatas thought it over, then nodded. “That is likely true. There is an exception to every rule.”
“I did lie to you,” the fanatic admitted. “Ashok surely lives, because he can’t die. He died once before, hung by a hook through the heart by the half-demon wizard Sikasso, and he came back to life anyway. The Forgotten’s Warrior will return and punish everyone who has ever harmed the faithful, for his word is stronger than death!” With a roar, the worker surged to his feet and tried to rush, headlong, into the nearest fire.
Bharatas had been expecting a suicidal move like that and caught him by the ankle. The worker fell, and with his hands tied behind him, went face-first into the hard-packed ground. The warriors came running.
“Keep him alive and tightly bound, no matter what,” Bharatas ordered, as they restrained their prize. “Any harm he manages to inflict on himself, I will do double to you.”
“It’ll be done, bearer,” the senior said as they hauled the worker to his feet.
“He knows where their prophet hides.” Bharatas picked up his helmet and stood. “I will send for torturers.”
“There’s no need for that!”
It was the lone Inquisitor who was obligated to accompany his army, and he appeared between the fires, walking with smug purpose. “I was told you had captured a prisoner. Questioning rebels is the responsibility of my Order.”
Simply seeing that mask with the snarling visage of the Law filled Bharatas with disgust. He had more respect for the religious fanatics than the Inquisition. For an Order that specialized in secrets and conspiracies, their inability to find the heart of the rebellion in Akershan had been too consistent. There had been far too many complaints from other shrewd warriors about how any captives they took who might know the rebellion’s location had a tendency to die beneath the Inquisitor’s knives before they could give up their secrets.
So Bharatas simply killed him.
Akerselem was a black blur as it effortlessly sheared through the top half of the Inquisitor’s skull. Since blood never stuck to a black steel blade, Bharatas had returned his sword to the sheath before the body toppled and all its brains spilled out.
The worker screamed. Even his men were shocked by the suddenness of it.
That had been very illegal, but his ancestor blade didn’t seem to find the act dishonorable, and Bharatas had more important things to concern himself with. The morals of ancestor blades were supposed to be inscrutable to the mortal mind, but he had told the sword his vow. It wanted him to find Ashok, of that he was sure. So anything he did to further that goal would be considered acceptable.
“Never speak of this to anyone. I’ll send a letter telling our Thakoor that our Inquisition escort died bravely in battle against rebels, and to send us a new Inquisitor at his earliest convenience.” He waited for his surprised soldiers to nod their understanding. “I suppose I will find time to write that letter in the next month or so.”
Then he went to the fanatic and put his hand against his cheek, forcing them face to terrified face. “You are a brave fool, worker, but you are right about Ashok Vadal. I am certain he’s still alive because I am the one who is destined to kill him.”
“A-Ashok wouldn’t break,” he stammered as he was dragged away. “Ashok would never break!”
Bharatas just shook his head sadly. “You are no Ashok.”