Son of the Black Sword: Chapter Twelve

    Ashok remembered the hands of a child, covered in blood…Now they were the hands of a man, hardened, and trembling with barely controlled rage. The spell was broken. It was all coming back. This was it, the very place where the fraud had begun.

    Lies. Slander. The crowd whispered about his allegations. Outrageous. They looked to their Thakoor, but Bidaya seemed incapable of responding. Ashok knew that the truth had momentarily robbed Bidaya of her serpent’s tongue. She should have known this day would come.

    Her silence was damning. The whispers began to change. Could it be? What does it mean? Born of an untouchable makes him untouchable. A casteless bears our sword?

    “What was her name?” Ashok whispered.

    Bidaya mumbled something incomprehensible.

    This time he bellowed with all his might, “What was her name?” The mob flinched away.

    “Why would I remember?” Bidaya shouted, her face flushed red. “I don’t remember the name of some wretched casteless whore any more that I remember the name of the pigs we butchered for dinner. They’re equally inconsequential. You were nothing. She was nothing. You were a whim of the sword. I made you, petulant child.”

    “You broke the Law,” someone in the crowd charged.

    “I saved this house!” Bidaya screamed back. Then she realized she’d said too much and tried to compose herself, but it was too late. Face had been lost. Word would spread. “I deny these charges. The Protector has lost his mind. He’s a foul liar. You wish to make this a legal matter, Ashok, then so be it. You wish a life for a life, then as the Law allows, I demand a duel. Who among you has the courage to defend the honor of this house? Who will fight on my behalf?”

    Several young men of the warrior caste immediately stepped forward. Their volunteering forced some of the hesitant soldiers to action so they wouldn’t lose face. They began to assemble in front of Bidaya. Most were too naïve to realize what they were facing. Some knew. They were aware of what an ancestor blade could do, threshing men as if it were a scythe and they were wheat, but they would willingly die for their master because that was what warriors do.

    “I will have my restitution,” Ashok warned. If she expected bloodshed to turn him aside, she was sorely mistaken. His anger would only be quenched when Bidaya was dead at his feet. “I don’t want to kill these men, but I will.”

    Most of them were young, dressed in brilliant uniforms, and wearing commendations earned as a result of their station rather than their own skill, yet there were a few among the perfumed peacocks that carried themselves like experienced combatants. One of them wearing the uniform of the Personal Guard raised his voice. “If you wish us to commit suicide on your behalf, my lady, we shall gladly do so, but there is no such thing as a duel when an ancestor blade is involved. Only slaughter.”

    Bidaya wore an evil smirk. Let the world say that the Protector had gone mad, slaughtering warriors of his own house, men who’d broken no law, who had no chance against an invincible black steel weapon…Bidaya would surely die, but not before she’d preserved her name. Ashok was so furious that he thought about cutting them all down regardless, but he would give her nothing.

    “You are wise, warrior.” Ashok drew his sword. The group before him flinched. They could feel that it was eager to kill. Not today. Ashok lifted Angruvadal high, then slammed its point deep into the floor. The black steel penetrated the stone like it was soft wood. He let go and stepped away, leaving the sword there, upright and vibrating from the impact.

    Now it was fair.

    He walked over to his opponents, stopping when they were only a few paces apart. Half of them had already drawn their dress knives and were jittery with nerves. “Who will contend with me?” Ashok suspected it would be the fearsome bodyguard next to Bidaya. That one looked eager enough.

    But Bidaya put her hand on the giant to keep him in place, then looked over her prospective duelists. There were a dozen to choose from. Ashok could tell what she was thinking. Without the sword, a warrior had a chance to defeat him. If he died in combat, Angruvadal would be satisfied. She could still salvage this situation. Bidaya had already proven herself so dishonorable that her next words shouldn’t have come as a surprise. “All of them.”

    “My lady?” asked the same veteran as before, unsure at the command.

    This was an execution. She meant for the lies to die with him. “You heard me, Jagdish, all of you.”

    Those with integrity hesitated, torn by such a command. The rest rushed forward, eager to curry their Thakoor’s favor.

    A young warrior lunged, driving his dagger at Ashok’s face, but the Protector knocked his arm away. Another gave a wild swing at his midsection, but Ashok darted back. Then he had to move again to avoid another blade, and another. But even without Angruvadal in his hand, he retained much of its wisdom, and had trained in the fighting arts of the Protector Order where Ratul had allowed him no crutch. Ashok flowed like water between his foes. He swatted aside an arm, then slammed his elbow into that warrior’s chest, knocking him down. Another stabbed at him recklessly, but Ashok caught him by the wrist and twisted, throwing him off balance, and used his momentum to snap bones. The warrior cried out in pain as Ashok spun him about and flung him into his allies.

    They were coming from every direction. A cut was directed at his back, but Ashok was too fast. He stepped into it, caught the arm, locked up on the elbow, and ground that joint into fragments. Then he dragged the arm back up and put the warrior precariously beyond his center of gravity. The others were still attacking, so he twisted the arm harder, steered the warrior between his body and danger, and dragged his meat shield toward the center of the dance floor.

    Many guests were fleeing, but others remained to watch the spectacle. Ashok observed his opponents. The inexperienced were getting in each other’s way, tripping each other up. The careful were flanking, looking for their moment. Ashok twisted the arm harder and the boy screamed. The reactions of his opponents told a story. Those who cringed were vulnerable. Intimidation made them afraid. Fear made them clumsy. That took care of most of them. Only one of them had a face as expressionless as Ashok’s. He made eye contact with that veteran, then he ripped the captive warrior’s knife from suddenly nerveless fingers and plunged it into its owner’s throat. He dropped the gurgling, choking warrior to drown in his own blood.

    Ashok held up the bloody weapon as if to say, now I have a knife.

    That was sufficient to strike fear into a few more of them.

    To their credit, most didn’t hesitate. The warriors came at him in a rush. The veteran tagged him in the side, but not deep enough to strike his vitals. The ceremonial blades were short, but they were kept razor sharp. He met them, clashing, striking, then moving aside, but always slicing. Ashok was calm. There was only action, reaction, and blood pressure.

    An arm wasn’t withdrawn fast enough, so Ashok split it open from wrist to elbow. Realizing the Protector was too fast to trade blow for blow, a warrior tried to tackle him, but Ashok drove the dagger into that one’s thigh. When he ripped it out a bright spray of femoral blood drenched the floor. He caught another arm and leveraged it around, stabbing that warrior repeatedly in the chest before dropping him into the puddle.

    There was a burning sensation as a steel edge parted the muscles of his back. Ashok dove between them, rolling across the stone, palm, forearm, shoulder, and then springing instantly back to his feet facing his attackers. He split a kidney in half, then stepped on the back of a knee to force the warrior down to have his throat slashed. Kicking that one between the shoulder blades caused the body to fall forward and trip up an advancing ally. That distraction gave Ashok the time he needed to put three fast puncture wounds into that attacker’s torso.

    That was over half of them dead, severely injured, or crippled and moaning on the floor.

    The remaining warriors came at him, trying to entangle him. If he became immobile, he would die. They fought across the hall. Feinting, striking, constantly moving. Ashok was cut again on the chest. He was kicked in the leg. While blocking a knife thrust a fist caught him in the eye. He opened that warrior’s stomach. Rolling round another, he opened that one’s armpit, but lost the unfamiliar knife when the blade stuck in a rib and the slick handle slid from his grasp.

    Ashok backed into a table. It was a failure of awareness. Luxurious food fell off the table and plates and glasses shattered. A wounded man sacrificed himself by throwing his body against Ashok. The sudden impact caused the table to collapse. As the rest closed on them, Ashok rolled through the food and blood and broken glass, spied a large two-tined meat fork and picked it up. The warrior grabbed him by the leg to keep him in place, but Ashok stabbed the fork through his hand and pinned his palm to the floor.

    Now there were only three. Ashok scrambled for maneuvering room as one of them broke a table leg over his shoulder. It had far more reach than their little dress knives. He spied a lost dagger and scooped it up as the improvised club slammed into his calf. Grimacing, Ashok turned, dodged the descending club, and hit that warrior in the chest. Ashok pushed forward, stabbing repeatedly, piercing between the ribs, until he tripped over his pinned comrade and fell flat on his back.

    Two remain.

    A collision with the experienced veteran knocked him aside, both of their arms flying back and forth, free hand attempting to keep the other’s blade away from the guts, but a feint and a quick twist of the wrist put a deep cut through the muscles of Ashok’s abdomen. This one was extremely skilled, but Ashok had touched the Heart, and the one Bidaya called Jagdish was only a man. They clashed again. Skin opened. Steel hit bone. Both parted with cuts. The winner dripped, the loser gushed, and the veteran had to stumble away, reaching for the deep laceration that had suddenly appeared in his bicep. Ashok used the distraction to lash out with a boot hard enough to snap bone. Jagdish fell as his broken leg collapsed beneath him.

    Ignoring his many wounds, Ashok started toward his false aunt. Blood was running down his back, leaking down his legs, and leaving a trail of bloody footprints in his wake. He should have collapsed, but it turned out that the Heart of the Mountain still beat even on behalf of a casteless fraud. The floor was littered with the dead and crippled. Injured warriors were trying to keep pressure on their wounds. A few of the fops were crying. They’d not expected this sort of dance tonight. All this blood in this place seemed so very familiar. The remaining guests were watching in shocked disbelief. Bidaya wore a mixture of disgust and fascination on her face.

    The giant bodyguard was patiently waiting his turn.

    One.

    “Kill him, Sankhamur.”

    Though thick with muscle, there was nothing slow about this one. The giant came down the last few steps and leapt onto the dance floor, a thick blade in each hand. He was as big as Blunt Karno and with the reach to match.

    They began circling each other. Sankhamur used the two-blade stance of a westerner, one knife out to create distance and the other down low at his side. That would be the one he’d kill with. For such a big man his footwork was smooth, and he closed swiftly, lead blade flicking back and forth. Ashok stayed ahead of it, and sure enough, once committed, the other blade swept up to eviscerate him. Endless training had prepared him though, and Ashok’s unconscious reaction enabled him to move aside in time and counterattack.

    With one of his knives lost and sliding across the bloody floor, the giant walked away with a deep cut on the back of his hand. Sankhamur paused to admire his injury, then looked at Ashok and nodded in appreciation. Now this was a proper duel.

    Ashok lunged forward, blade flashing. Then he retreated as Sankhamur countered. Fast as the eye could follow, they went back and forth. Short, brutal flicks of the wrist, aimed at veins and arteries. Blood flew, from new cuts or old, Ashok couldn’t even tell, but even he was beginning to weaken. Sankhamur fought like a sea demon and his fists were like iron. A vicious blow to the body lifted Ashok’s feet from the ground. A rib broke. But he came back down swinging the knife.

    Sankhamur intercepted it, edge against edge, and the fine steel nicked and locked together. They turned, and the giant should have hurled him down, but with the Heart of the Mountain, they were equals in strength. Ashok was closer to the ground, however, and he was able to use the leverage to push Sankhamur back. The two of them wheeled about, striking each other, throwing elbows and knees that landed with bone jarring force, both wanting to free their blade, but also not wanting to let the other escape. Ashok couldn’t twist this one’s joints. The bodyguard was too strong and Ashok’s free hand was too slick and wet. Sankhamur hit the steps and tripped back, Ashok still on him. Some of the foolish guests didn’t get out of the way in time and they were smashed between Sankhamur’s bulk and the wall. Both he and Sankhamur ignored the screaming.

    They were so close Ashok could smell his breath, wine and cheese. Somehow Sankhamur’s free hand had gotten hold of Ashok’s knife hand, and Ashok’s free hand had hold of the wrist that ended with Sankhamur’s blade. The giant smashed Ashok’s nose with his forehead, and Ashok slammed a knee into the bodyguard’s groin, but neither would let go. Sankhamur’s feet slid out from under him and Ashok threw his weight down on the man.

    And then the giant’s grip slipped.

    That heartbeat-long mistake was all it took. Hand free, Ashok plunged the small knife into the top of his chest, just over the collar bone. Sankhamur roared in his ear and thrashed about. The wounded hand landed on Ashok’s face and shoved, twisting his neck so hard that it felt as if it would break. Veins standing out in his forehead, the giant tried to force Ashok back, free his blade, anything, but Ashok wouldn’t budge. He got an angle and began stabbing, the little blade darting in and out, perforating the bodyguard’s chest.

    Losing too much blood, Sankhamur slowly sank down the wall, fingers twisted into claws and tearing into Ashok’s face, but his slide exposed his throat, and Ashok adjusted and stabbed him just beneath the ear.

    Eyes wide, the two combatants stared at each other for a time. Competence turned to confusion as the blood drained from Sankhamur’s brain, but still he struggled. The truth of the moment was enough to make Ashok forget his rage. This was a waste of a great warrior. But justice was not yet fulfilled, so Ashok twisted the knife and sent Sankhamur to the endless nothing.

    Panting, Ashok stood up. He was dizzy. The sick feeling in his stomach and the cold in his limbs told him that even the Heart had reached its limits. It was stop now or perish. The worker trapped beneath Sankhamur’s body was crying for help. Other than that, the room was deafening in its silence. He limped away from the wall, turning to gaze at the shocked onlookers who were staring at him in wide-eyed disbelief.

    Bidaya…

    The woman he’d always believed to be his aunt had crossed the hall and was standing next to mighty Angruvadal. “Your selfishness has ruined everything.”

    “What was her name?” Ashok asked again as blood dripped from his split lips.

    But Bidaya was past listening. As her fraud had unraveled, so had her life, and all that remained for her was to rage. “This sword made this house, and now it’s destroyed it. It never should have chosen you!” She leered at the crowd, a caricature of the wise leader they’d thought they’d had. “What does it say about the men of this house, when none of you were worthy? You useless, preening warriors were so awful that it would rather choose an untouchable. This is your fault, too!” She kicked one of the corpses.

    “What was my name?” Ashok whispered.

    “My own son lacked the spine to even try. My warriors were too useless. Your failure gave us this casteless abomination! This is no Protector!” Bidaya screamed as she went to the sword. “I’m the one that protects us all. I should have done it myself!” She wrapped her tiny hands around the handle and pulled it free.

    “My lady! No!” shouted one of the arbiters.

    Defiant, she held up Angruvadal for all to see. “See! I should have done this to begin with! My house, my sword! I’m the one who made Vadal great! I’m the one who has kept you safe and made you all rich! I’m the one who –”

    The sword found her unworthy.

    Bidaya’s expression contorted in horror and revulsion as the muscles of her arm moved against her will. She tried to fight it, but the sword was very unforgiving. Black steel flashed as Bidaya struck herself in the side of the head. The blade sliced so quick and cleanly through the front of her skull that it was as if it wasn’t even there. Angruvadal spun from her fingers, struck the floor, and slid, coming to a rest at Ashok’s feet.

    Faceless, Bidaya stood there a moment, until her brains slid out and the Thakoor of Great House Vadal collapsed in a heap.

    Ashok bent over and picked up his sword.

    It didn’t shatter at his touch.

    The main hall was covered in blood and corpses. The guests were too stunned to speak. Some had begun to cry, whether for their dead Thakoor or the bleak future of their house, he didn’t know. More warriors had arrived, and they were lining the balcony, bows ready and arrows nocked, but they saw the black steel blade in his hand and hesitated.

    The Law required a bearer to defend himself. He would have no choice. Enough decent men had already died to expose this corruption. Ashok found the highest-ranking of the archers and gave a small shake of his head. That would not be wise. The commander agreed. The bows were lowered.

    Ashok picked out a guest wearing the silver insignia of a judge. “You…”

    The judge swallowed hard. “Me?”

    “Yes, you. I wish to turn myself in as a violator. The Law has been broken. I’m guilty of murder, treason, fraud, and I’m certain you’ll think of many more crimes to add to the list. I am a casteless by birth but have been illegally bearing weapons and pretending to be a whole man. My responsibility…” Ashok held up the sword and the judge pulled away fearfully, “will not allow me to commit suicide. I require legal counsel and punishment. Where may I be imprisoned until judgment is pronounced?”

    “Urm…” That had been an unexpected question. “There’s Cold Stream Prison just south of the warrior district, outside the city gates.”

    He gave a small bow. “Thank you. Please tend to these wounded. None of them deserves to die.”

    Ashok took one last look around the main hall of Great House Vadal. This is where the only life he’d ever known had begun, and this is where it had ended. Then he turned and limped from the room without looking back.

    The symbol of the Protector Order remained, abandoned in a puddle of blood.