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Chapter 26



The little casteless boy scrubbed the blood from the floor. With bucket and rag, he worked until his flesh was raw and his hands ached. The black sword lay nearby, clean, despite the multitude of lives it had taken.

It had been repeated countless times, except there was something new in Ashok’s dream. A shadow grew within Great House Vadal, until it loomed over the blood-scrubbing boy. Thick and oozing, like smoke from burning oil, the darkness expanded. Seething rage could be felt coming from the shadow, hot as the fires his father had used to cremate bodies. Unlike the man he would become, the boy could still feel fear, and he spilled the bucket of pink water as he tried to escape.

The shadow followed.

This insect is what you chose?”

The shadow wasn’t addressing the boy, for he was too far beneath it. That terrible anger was directed toward the black sword.

“I was forsaken. A thousand years of torment, for nothing.”

The boy tried to run, but the shadow effortlessly encircled him.

“I will tear down all you have created.”

An unknown noise brought Ashok instantly awake. Placing one hand on the sword lying next to him on the cold stone floor, he waited, but sensed no movement. The only sound was Moyo’s snoring. Even Ashok’s abnormal eyes could see nothing in the pitch black of the down below, so he used the Heart of the Mountain to sharpen his hearing. He almost expected to hear the click of goat hooves, but there was nothing. They were alone in the small room the cache was hidden in. There wasn’t so much as a mouse breathing within twenty feet.

Then someone whispered in his ear.

“Ashok Vadal.”

He was certain there was nothing there. Even a man without fear could still be made uneasy, so he slowly, quietly drew the stolen Fortress blade from its sheath.

The voice came again.

“Fall.”

The whispered name wasn’t his mind playing tricks on him. It came like a serpentine hiss that made the hair on his arms stand up. The Law had always taught him that ghosts were a myth, but that hadn’t stopped them from speaking to him upon occasion.

“Arise and be tested.”

Suddenly, Ashok found himself standing in the tunnel outside the cache, drawn sword in one hand, lantern flickering in the other, and no memory of lighting it, or how he had gotten here. From the noise, Moyo was still inside, asleep and unaware.

Had he unknowingly moved himself? Or had it moved him? Either way, it made Ashok furious.

“What are you?”

“Judgment.”

The whisper was in his ear, but somehow he knew that it had come from down the hall, from the left fork, beyond the monument of bones. The Dvarapala was calling him. Challenging him.

Ashok blinked, and somehow now he was standing before the threshold of trespass, with no recollection of walking here. The lantern cast strange shadows across the multitude of skulls. They seemed to turn, as if watching him. Ashok despised thieves, and this creature was either stealing his time, or his very will.

“Get out of my head.”

“Comply and face judgment, Fall.”

It wasn’t in his nature to refuse any challenge. A bearer was required to accept all duels. Except with Angruvadal broken, Ashok was no longer bound by those traditions, and meeting some horrible being from the ancient world would not help him get back to Thera.

“I have no quarrel with you.”

“Angruvadal does. It was Angruvadal’s master who condemned me here.”

The whisper was growing sharper, angrier.

“You are Angruvadal now. You must pay its price.”

A shard had been embedded in Ashok’s chest when it was destroyed, but he was not his sword. Being alone underground for so long must have driven the thing insane. “I have no time for the ramblings of a mad god.”

Ashok turned and began walking away, but only made it a short distance before everything went black, and he found himself once again standing before the threshold, with the last few seconds of his life missing.

“A coward’s magic trick,” Ashok snarled. This time the effect had left him dizzy. There was growing heat in the center of his chest, as the shard buried there came to life.

“Behold. Your owner hungers for battle.”

Except how could he fight something so powerful that it could take control of his very limbs? The will of black steel was inscrutable, its peculiar code a mystery to man. Except in that moment, Ashok knew with absolute certainty that Angruvadal wanted this thing to die. This was a grudge beyond mortal comprehension. Having used Angruvadal to slay a multitude of his enemies, it seemed only fair he return the favor now. He could only hope that the remains of his oldest friend would be sufficient to protect him from the Dvarapala’s strange magic.

“I was Angruvadal’s final bearer. If someone has to answer for offense given a thousand years before I was born, so be it. Show yourself, foul thing that lives beneath hell, so I can put you out of your misery.”

A ball of light appeared on the other side of the threshold, far brighter than his feeble lantern, so intense he was forced to shield his eyes. It was just a blob, without form, floating in the air. Then the light began drifting down the tunnel, showing him the way.

Ashok crossed the threshold and followed.

The sword he had procured was similar to the Uttaran style, had decent balance, and seemed to be of solid quality. From what he had seen, Fortress produced incompetent swordsman but armed them with decent steel. It was no Vadal blade, but it would do. Would it be enough to slay an ancient being that had supposedly killed warriors by the legion? He would soon find out.

The beacon led him farther down the tunnel into the strange illumination Moyo had shown him earlier. White as Canda’s moonlight, it seemed to come from above, though there was no source. He no longer required his lantern to see and entertained the thought of putting out the flame to save the oil. Assuming he survived, he would need it on the way out. However, it would be foolish to trust that an unknown magic would not betray and abandon him when most needed, so the lantern stayed lit.

The mysterious brightness grew until it was like he was walking on the surface on a dim and cloudy day. Many would consider such magic miraculous, but Ashok found it deceitful. What manner of loathsome thing hid from the sun so much that it needed to create a fake one?

The tunnel gradually widened into the largest space Ashok had seen in the underworld so far. Moyo had called it a cavern. That was incorrect, for this place had clearly not been made by nature. It felt as if he was inside a great hollow cube, so vast the light cloud could not touch the distant ceiling.

His magical guide drifted toward the side and up what had probably been stairs once, except dripping water had eroded them into a bumpy ramp. Ashok climbed until he saw there was a wide platform to the side, so he leapt up onto it for a better look around.

There was a city inside the cube, made of featureless rectangular buildings, each of them taller than any structure in the Capitol—dozens of them, stretching forward in orderly rows. Their walls were covered in strange moss, and fields of black mushrooms grew in the wide, damp streets. Ashok knew nothing about architecture, but these grand structures beneath the ocean were the largest he had ever seen, magnificent despite being coated in a film of mold and decay.

Though the guide light had stayed close to him in the tunnel, it seemed content to continue onward now, leaving him behind. As marvelous as the spectacle of an underground city was, Ashok had an ancient god to kill, so he continued.

His sandals splashed through puddles. Cracks and holes in the ancients’ roadway had turned into dirty lakes and streams, wherein pale eyeless fish swam. He could hear small animals fleeing the light. Something flapped above. He assumed it was bats, but in this cursed place, who knew?

The light led him into an open square between four large structures, where something he couldn’t understand had been placed in the central courtyard. At first he thought it was some manner of banquet, as there appeared to be a dozen men seated around a low table, attended to by servants, except as he called upon the Heart to focus his vision, he saw that they were corpses arranged in a grotesque mockery of life. Set before them were plates of small animal bones, a parody of a meal. As the light expanded to fill the central space, more bodies were revealed, propped upright somehow, like scarecrows in a worker’s field. There were retainers in ragged capes and bodyguards in rusting armor with blades sheathed in rotting leather. With revulsion he realized that there was even a band, with corroded instruments clutched in fingers of bone, and skeletons that had been stuck together as dancers, frozen forever in mid-twirl.

“Welcome to my celebration.”

Some of the bodies were clearly ancient, bleached bones crumbling. Others were far newer, probably collector dead, though they were not dressed in the practical manner of Moyo, but rather in strange courtly garb, once opulent, now faded and rotting. That clothing was unlike anything he had seen in Lok or Fortress. Which meant the Dvarapala must have dragged the bodies here and dressed them in the ancients’ attire, before arranging them in this sick façade, like a child’s dolls.

“Join us, Fall.”

His whole life he had been taught there was no life beyond this one, but such disrespect for the dead filled him with disgust and revulsion. He didn’t need the Law or gods to tell him this perversion was the worst type of crime.

“You are not here to judge me. I am here to judge you.”

The whispers seemed closer somehow, and Ashok slowly turned, searching for his foe. “Why have you done this to them?”

“I tired of being alone.”

Then the Dvarapala revealed itself.

It came from above, crawling down one of the edifices on the far side of the square, defying gravity as if it were a gigantic spider. Its skin was blue beneath the strange light, similar to the cold flesh of a Dasa. It was shaped like a man, but far larger, and with an extra set of arms. Its head was pointed downward as it clambered effortlessly across the slick surface, until it neared the ground, and then bent at the waist—at such an impossible angle it would have broken a human spine—to place its feet upon the ground. When it straightened itself and lifted its head, it was several feet taller than Ashok.

“They should not have left me here alone. I was corrupted.”

“Expect no pity from me. Not after seeing this.” Ashok set his lantern upon the banquet table in order to have that hand free. “You had your obligation. I have mine. You should have left me be so that I could fulfill it.”

“My purpose here is lost.”

“If your obligation is done, end your life with dignity, and spare me the trouble.”

“I do not have that authority. Only the master has that power. Are you he?”

“No.”

“Inconclusive.”

The Dvarapala stalked toward him. It was a hulking thing, muscled like a bull, and like a bull, it had horns, but too many. Its four arms each ended in a gigantic hand that looked strong enough to rend Ashok’s body in half. Just like the far smaller Dasa, its face had no features at all, just a membrane of blue skin stretched over the bones beneath, though whatever shapes lurked beneath there, they shared no relation to the face of man.

“All things degrade in time. Even deep within the world, unseen particles bombard us. Centuries pass. Rot. Memories are lost. Rot. Errors are made. Rot. Commands are forgotten. Rot.”

It stopped a mere twenty feet away. Though it was nearer now, its words remained a whisper.

“I no longer know my purpose. All I have left is my hate.”

“Hate alone will not sustain you.” Ashok raised the sword and subtly shifted into a duelist’s stance. “That is something I learned in my own dark prison.”

The two combatants studied each other for a moment. The Dvarapala had killed many warriors of Fortress, but it was doubtful any of those had a fraction of Ashok’s skill. Ashok had defeated man and demon—more than anyone else alive—yet the capabilities of this thing were a mystery. The Heart of the Mountain had returned him to his former strength, and the shard of Angruvadal burned with a cold rage, the likes of which Ashok had never felt from it before. It began to feed instincts into his mind, of dangers and potential angles of attack, just like old times.

The beast came at him, stooping as it ran, until it used its lower pair of arms as extra legs. It was like dodging a charging cavalry horse. The arm that swung for him was as long as a lance. Ashok spun out of the way, slashing as he did, striking deep into the blue flesh. The Fortress steel struck true.

They parted. The Dvarapala circled, still low to the floor, cautious now. The wound in its side didn’t bleed. The skin hung open and dangling, like parted fabric.

The footing was slick, treacherous. The monster weighed far more than he did. That extra mass would anchor it. So Ashok ground one sandal into the muck until it found good purchase, raised his sword, and calmly waited.

“I was not always this. They made me into this thing you see before you.”

“I understand that more than you know.”

This time when the Dvarapala attacked, it was clever, feinting right, then lunging toward him, multiple arms coming at him lightning quick. Ashok pushed off, leaping aside, striking at one of the limbs. The impact was solid, and he pulled through the cut as he moved back.

That hit would have severed a man’s arm, but the Dvarapala’s bones must have been hard as demon. It stepped back, testing its fingers by repeatedly making a fist.

“You exhibit enhanced reflexes, strength, speed—”

Ashok interrupted the whispers, thrusting at the monster’s broad chest. It moved with surprising speed, shifting aside, and then bringing one of its upper arms around to knock away the follow-up strike.

“—and aggression…What generation must you be?”

“You speak in riddles. Be silent and fight.”

Ashok went at the beast with everything he had.

The Dvarapala reacted with an explosive fury, intercepting each of his attacks with one of its many arms. It must have been toying with him earlier, as it pressed its tremendous size advantage now, driving Ashok back. A lesser swordsman would have been overwhelmed and crushed underfoot, but Ashok stayed ahead of the furious blows. The two of them splashed through the muck, before its third arm came from underneath to nail him in the hip, landing with such tremendous force it sent him crashing back into the banquet, scattering bones.

Ashok rolled off the table as a giant blue fist slammed into the spot where he’d just been. Managing to get in a fearsome draw cut across the beast’s stomach, Ashok then had to duck to avoid yet another blow. Angruvadal warned him to put the table between them, and Ashok did so. That saved his life as another hand swept around to obliterate an ancient skeleton instead, and Ashok ducked through the cloud of obscuring dust.

The lantern was still burning on the table. Ashok struck it hard with the flat of his blade, flinging it at the Dvarapala’s blank face. Glass shattered against a horn and the Fortress oil erupted into orange flames.

It didn’t seem to notice that it was on fire.

The beast sank all of its hands beneath the table and wrenched tons of stone from the floor. It flipped the table toward Ashok, end over end, and all he could do was run or be crushed.

Ashok picked up a skull and hurled it. The monster knocked it aside, but Ashok had been right behind that distraction, and struck the beast upward, and then down, carving the sword through blue flesh. His third attack sliced through the back of its knee, but from the way the Dvarapala didn’t topple, it had no tendons to sever.

Though he was able to avoid most of the impact, he couldn’t escape the counter entirely, and even catching an edge of that mighty backhand sent him flying across the space. Dancers shattered beneath him, and then he was rolling through the muck.

The pain was incredible as dungeon-atrophied muscles screamed in protest, but none of his bones broke, and no arteries were severed, so the Heart could keep feeding him strength. Ignoring the agony, he leapt back to his feet as the burning Dvarapala closed in.

The instincts of Angruvadal’s prior bearers were no help here, as none of them had ever faced a being like this, but the shard itself somehow knew this creature well, and actual images cascaded through his mind. It was like looking at a master artist’s meticulously crafted drawing of the Dvarapala, and all its strange inner workings.

Angruvadal showed him that though it was fearsome, it was not indestructible. There was a weakness.

One of the nearby corpses had been placed as if he was protectively watching over the inhabitants of the square. From the level of decay he had only been here a handful of years, and there was another Fortress-forged sword at his side. Ashok rushed over and pulled it from the crumbling sheath. It came free but trailed a long strip of cobwebs after. The blade was covered with rust, but it would have to do.

Four arms versus two swords, Ashok turned back to meet the Dvarapala.

It tried to encircle him with its incredible reach, but he slashed his way free. When it came at him again, he struck, then moved, sliding across the slick floor. If he slipped, he would die. If it cornered him, he would die. Using the western two-blade style, he kept ahead of the thing, constantly striking. The rusted blade did not cut well, but he could still use it to redirect those terrible fists away from his body. The other blade was wickedly sharp, and he put it to work. Each impact caused bits of flaming blue skin to break off and float away.

With certain knowledge, this could not continue. Even with the Heart, he would tire. One mistake. One good hit. And Ashok would surely die. He was methodically slicing the Dvarapala to ribbons, yet he couldn’t reach its vulnerability.

Then his foot slipped.

That was enough, and the Dvarapala struck him down. Ashok felt the ribs on that side break as it slammed him against the stone floor. Swiftly, he ran his sword up the inside of the monster’s leg, flaying it wide open, but then the other leg kicked him in his damaged chest.

Ashok skidded through the scattered bones until he crashed against the remains of the table.

In a life of endless combat and misfortune, that was the hardest he had ever been hit.

There was no air. He couldn’t breathe. When he looked down and saw the huge footprint denting in his chest, it was no surprise his lungs wouldn’t fill. They’d been absolutely flattened. Such an injury would have instantly killed a normal man. Magic had made Ashok more than man, but this was grim even by his standards.

“I want to die, yet you are unworthy to slay me.”

The Dvarapala walked toward him. The oil fire had gone out, leaving its strange head blackened and charred. The rest of it was falling apart, cut so many times it was like one of the Protector Acolyte’s training dummies. Only instead of stuffing falling out, it bled something that looked like sand. Rectangles of silver bone could be seen through the multitude of holes, and there, deep in its torso, was the target Angruvadal had revealed.

For a moment he thought the magical light was dimming, except that was simply his brain running out of precious air. It was like looking through a narrowing tunnel, and at the end of that was the Dvarapala. A man without fear could still be urged to desperate haste, so Ashok dropped the rusty sword and pressed that hand hard into his flesh, grasped a broken rib, and wrenched it back to what he thought was the correct place. It caused a pain the likes of which he had never imagined. Despite that, he methodically repeated the process, rib by rib, concentrating the Heart of the Mountain toward controlling the bleeding, and then made himself breathe by sheer force of will.

With an incredibly violent cough, he hacked up a fountain of blood.

Much better.

“I was not always this thing. I am the mind of a man etched onto black steel. I do not know if I am still real. How could you allow this?”

The effect was briefer, but more noticeable than last time, as something once again took possession of his body. “You volunteered,” Ashok answered, with a voice that was not his own.

He didn’t know where those words had come from, but they seemed to enrage the Dvarapala. “Lies! Lies!” The thing sank down next to him, lowering its charred, faceless head, until the sharp tips of the horns were only inches from Ashok’s eyes. “Rot and lies!”

Ashok drove the sword through a narrow juncture of silver bones, straight into the Dvarapala’s black steel core.

It exploded.


An unknown time later, Ashok slowly blinked himself back to consciousness.

His vision was swimming, but it revealed the mighty Dvarapala was lying a few feet away, split nearly in half. The damage was almost like one of Thera’s powder bombs had gone off inside its chest. One leg was kicking spasmodically. Silver bones had sheared. Its powdered blood had been spread everywhere, and some of it hung floating in the air like motes of dust. The destruction was similar to when Angruvadal had shattered, only this time all that energy had been contained inside a body.

The beast was done for.

Ashok could barely move. If it hadn’t been for the Heart of the Mountain, he’d be joining the monster shortly, but his wounds would heal. In the meantime, all he could do was lie there as the creature kept whispering the same message, over and over, weaker each time.

“A fatal error has occurred.”

He felt no anger. Only pity. “Your obligation is fulfilled. Be at peace, guardian.”

His words seemed to shake the thing from its mantra. The horned head was partially submerged in a puddle, but it wasn’t looking at Ashok anyway. It was staring into the great nothing beyond.

“I remember who I was. I vowed to Ramrowan I would protect this place as long as necessary. I would not let them squander the future. This is how they can rebuild. I remember now why I made this sacrifice.”

“Was it worth it?”

“That will be up to you.”

The whisper tapered off, and the mighty Dvarapala was no more.

The light that had guided him here winked out of existence, leaving Ashok alone and crippled in the dark.


Having his chest crushed had nearly ended Ashok’s life. All he could do was lay there among the dead and let the Heart of the Mountain repair his body. Sapped of all strength, for a time he drifted between sleep and reality. Both places were pitch black.

Ashok was troubled, not just by splintered ribs, ruptured organs, and internal bleeding, but by the knowledge that it had not been the Dvarapala that had taken control of his body and sent him down that fork. It was not the work of a mad god to force him back to the threshold when he had tried to walk away.

It had been Angruvadal.

His life was what it was, all because one of the most powerful magical devices in the world had picked a casteless blood-scrubber boy as its bearer. He had lived, trying his best to honor the will of the sword. It had been his companion and oldest friend. Devedas had been his next. Now both of those had betrayed him. Angruvadal had once stopped Ashok’s heart to spare Devedas from his wrath. This was worse.

Whether it was pronounced dreaming or awake, aloud or in his head—he didn’t know—his ultimatum was delivered.

“I have been your bearer. First by hand, then by heart. I have served. But know this, Angruvadal, I am not your slave. I have done all that is asked of me, but I will not be forced again. I kept the Law by choice, just as I choose my own way now. If you have need of my service, ask, and we will remain of one purpose. However, if you ever seize control of this body again, I will rip you from my chest, and even as that wound ends my life, I will hurl you into the sea. This I vow.”

The shard was still. Ashok would take that for compliance. It knew him far too well to doubt his conviction.

Later, Ashok was awoken by an approaching light and hesitant footsteps.

“Avatara!”

Ashok slowly, reluctantly sat up, cringing at the hurt. His bones were no longer as shattered as the glass of his lantern, but they were still riddled with cracks. Every breath was like inhaling fire.

The light bounced as the collector ran toward him, and then he suddenly skidded to a stop when he saw the remains of the Dvarapala. Moyo stood there, wide-eyed and gaping, as he took in the destruction.

“You are a brave man, Collector Moyo. You crossed the threshold, despite not knowing the Dvarapala was dead.” He would have tried to give him a respectful bow, but Ashok didn’t think his torso was ready to bend just yet.

“Is all that your blood?”

“It is.” He glanced down, as the comparatively feeble light revealed just how much he had lost. No wonder he felt so weak. “I will make more.”

“It’s done…I can’t believe it.” Moyo walked toward the blue body, kicked it, and then quickly retreated. When it didn’t leap up and tear him limb from limb, Moyo shouted, “It’s really gone! This is it?” He glanced around the huge space, as if trying to comprehend it all, and failed miserably. Moyo began shaking so badly his lantern rattled, and the oil inside sloshed about dangerously. “You really are the one!”

“Steady, Moyo.” The last thing Ashok needed was for his guide to drop his lantern and set himself on fire. Crawling his way back to the cache blind would be a challenge. “Calm yourself.”

“My guild has been preparing for this day for centuries. I can’t believe this is happening.” The collector carefully set his lantern down—thankfully—and then sank to the floor and began to weep.

Generations of his family had given their lives toward this goal, so Ashok let Moyo be. It was customary for the warrior caste to show great passion during moments of triumph or failure. Why should it be any different for the scavengers of Fortress? Let him be overcome by emotion for a time. Ashok was in no condition to march yet anyway.

After some sobbing, Moyo managed to wipe his eyes and tried to compose himself. “Oh great Ramrowan, what would you have me do?”

“I remain Ashok, the same man you’ve walked beneath half the ocean with. All I would have is your continued help getting home.”

Yet Moyo was still reeling. “Sure, Avatara…I mean Ashok. But this changes everything. All of Xhonura has been waiting for this day. All our priests and gurus have been preparing us for your return. The guilds stand ready to fulfill our purpose.”

“If you need to return to your people to tell them this door is no longer guarded, so you can begin looting this city, I understand, and will take no offense. I am certain I can read your guild sign well enough to make it the rest of the way on my own.”

“I don’t think you understand…I can’t believe I’m correcting the gods’ right hand, so let them strike me down if I am anything but honest.” The collector took a deep breath. “Alright. This proves you are Ramrowan. There can be no doubt! Ramrowan is the rightful master of Xhonura. All our weapons are yours to use. All our guilds must serve your will. The Workshop, the island, it all belongs to you.”

Ashok thought that over. It sounded absurd, but these Law breakers were an absurd people. “That is your Law?”

“It is.”

“So I am the king of Fortress now?”

“Yes! Well, the Ram. The current Ram will require some convincing, of course. Except this is undeniable proof!” Moyo gestured wildly at the body. “Ram Sahib is sure to concede and step down. The Workshop will be yours to command.”

He had been rushing back to Lok, hoping to find Thera. It was his duty to protect her, but how could one man save her from the might of the Capitol and all the great houses? She would never abandon her rebellion, or the casteless it was trying to free. It was a futile battle, and no matter how hard he fought, their failure was inevitable.

Unless…

“How big is your island’s army?”


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