Son of the Black Sword: Chapter Eighteen

    “Where’s your cane?” Pakpa asked.

    “I threw it in the river,” Jagdish answered. He’d be damned if he presented himself to his new assignment looking like a cripple. Besides, his leg only really hurt in the mornings, or when it was too cold, or too hot, or when he walked, or put too much weight on it. He spread his arms so she could see his new uniform. “How do I look?” he asked his new bride.

    “Like the finest warrior in all of Vadal,” she lied, or perhaps she was so still so happy to have been assigned a higher-status husband that she actually believed that. To Jagdish, when he looked in the mirror all he saw was a warrior so pathetic that he’d managed to lose a duel even when his opponent had been unfairly outnumbered, and who’d had a Thakoor die under his watch as a result. It had taken months for his arm and leg to heal enough to return to duty, but by then, the story had spread, and no fighting paltan wanted him.

    “The finest warrior? I doubt that.”

    “You will make an excellent risaldar.”

    Pakpa meant well, but she’d grown up in the worker caste. She couldn’t grasp the nuances of rank and assignment within the warrior caste hierarchy. To her, being married off to a miserable failure of a soldier was still a huge step up in life. She didn’t understand that his new promotion was really intended as an insult. Only the worst places received names related to water, and he was being sent to Cold Stream.

    Jagdish kissed his wife. “I must go. I can’t be late.”

    He limped from their small home, through the streets of the city, south toward his new assignment, guarding the very bastard who had ruined his life.

    The fallen Protector’s appearance had changed. He’d not shaved or cut his hair since the slaughter. His beard was long and unkempt, his hair wild and filthy, and now he truly looked like the casteless dog that he was. Like the other prisoners, he was dressed in gray rags.

    The only noticeable difference was that sword.

    “What does he do?”

    “Nothing much, Risaldar Jagdish,” the prison guard told him. “We let them out into the yard for most of the afternoon, but he keeps to himself. I think the other prisoners are scared of him. He exercises, sword forms mostly, then runs several laps around the yard, but that’s it. When their time is up, we ask him to return to his cell, and he does. Then he just sits there and stares off into nothing.”

    Jagdish stood at the tower railing, looking down into the yard and the prisoners who’d segregated themselves into groups. Most of them were here because of crimes not severe enough to warrant execution, but a judge had found them to have temperaments unfit for a period of slavery. His new charges were mostly thieves, debtors, and deserters. The roster said he had a few murderers and rapists from the warrior caste, who would serve their time and then be returned to duty, where murder and rape weren’t necessarily crimes as long as they remembered to only do it to their approved enemies and not their own people. He also had some workers guilty of that level of crime who’d not been executed, which told him they came from families with enough money to bribe a judge. Then there were the hostages, warriors taken from other houses in border raids, held here until their families paid a ransom or they were traded for Vadal men being held in other lands.

    But none of those mundane prisoners interested Jagdish right now. “Has the prisoner caused any problems?” He had five hundred charges, but there was only one who could be the prisoner.

    “None, sir. He’s unfailingly polite. In fact, Nayak Suchart was surprised by one of the more violent prisoners, who started choking him with a length of chain. Before any of us could get there, Ashok appeared and beheaded the attacker. Cut his head right off like it was nothing. Then he just walked back to his cell. Saved Suchart’s life, more than likely.”

    “Yes. I’m sure they call him the Black Heart because it overflows with mercy.”

    “I wouldn’t say that, Risaldar. It wasn’t mercy so much as annoyance. He told the prisoners that were watching that he wouldn’t abide anybody breaking the Law in his presence…Scared them, that’s for sure. Assaults have been down and we’ve not had a single riot since he’s been here. We used to have fights between the different hostage gangs all the time, but now they’re all scared of getting on his bad side. Most of the prisoners seem happy, you know, having a bit of entertainment.”

    “The Law didn’t condemn them here to be happy, Nayak,” Jagdish said, not that he particularly cared about the nuances of the Law. He just wanted to fulfill this dead end detail until a proper war started, because then his value as a border scout would far outweigh his reputation as a lousy personal guard. “What do you mean, entertainment?”

    “The duels, sir…Wait…You’ve not been told about the duels?”

    “I’m a soldier. Nobody ever tells me anything. What duels?”

    “Chief Judge Harta’s orders. Anyone who wishes to try and take the magic sword is allowed to duel the prisoner for it. We’re required to let them fight. They show up all the time. Not just warriors, but Harta even said to allow workers. Maybe he thinks somebody will get lucky or the sword will find somebody it likes better? Hell, he’s even let men from other houses have a shot. Said if an outsider won, they’d be given a Vadal obligation and promoted to the first caste!”

    That reeked of desperation…But a promotion to the highest status was a rare thing indeed. Jagdish watched the prisoner, who had found a lip of rock on the perimeter wall and was doing chin-ups with his fingertips. “How many has he beaten?”

    “I don’t know, but probably every fool crazy enough to try and earn himself a better place in the entire region. So far? He’s been here six months, so forty-five, maybe fifty. I’d have to check the guest log at the gatehouse. I’m surprised you haven’t heard.”

    “I’ve been preoccupied lately.”

    “We’ve even had a problem with spectators bribing guards to come inside so they can watch. That’s what got our last risaldar transferred. The judges must’ve not liked that one of us thought of a way to take bribes for something before they could…” He trailed off when Jagdish didn’t laugh.

    “That nonsense ends. This is a prison, not a circus.”

    “Well, it’s been like we’ve had our own personal arena and the prison has a champion gladiator. This must be how the first caste live in the Capitol,” the guard said with a wistful tone.

    “How many of these challengers has the prisoner killed?”

    “Not more than ten or twelve I think. It looks like he tries to let them live. Most, he soundly beats, then he gives them a lecture about how to fight better before sending them on their way. Them who piss him off though, they go into the furnace in parts. The Black Heart doesn’t strike me as the patient sort, but he’s got a particular sort of honor to him.”

    The fact that one of his guards seemed so impressed by the prisoner annoyed Jagdish to no end. Only the lowest of his caste were given this assignment. There was never any chance for glory, but plenty of opportunity for failure. If they fulfilled their duty, none of their betters would ever notice, but if one of their prisoners escaped or killed a guard, there would be plenty of shame. The prison guards didn’t get to do the things a warrior was born to do, so it was no surprise they would be impressed by a fighter of the Black Heart’s skill.

    “I want to speak to him.”

    “You sure that’s a good idea, sir? I mean, I heard you were there that night…”

    “Tomorrow, after exercise, send the rest back to their cells, but have the prisoner stay in the yard. I will meet him alone.”

    That night Jagdish lay in bed beside Pakpa, thinking about what he was going to do the next day. Most would say it was foolish, but as a proud warrior, he couldn’t let such an opportunity pass. Low born, without any connections, the only other way he could rise in status was to become a war hero. A duel made perfect sense, except for that whole dying part.

    He couldn’t sleep. Not because of nerves, but rather because Pakpa snored. Her wheezing sounded like the giant machines at the worker’s foundry on the other side of the military district’s wall.

    How can someone so beautiful snore like an elephant?

    Not that Jagdish minded that Pakpa snored and constantly rolled around in her sleep, gentle as an ox, shaking their small, flimsy bed, and occasionally scratching him with her toenails, because her positive traits far outweighed those few negatives. As a warrior of low birth, he’d expected his arranged marriage to be to an ugly, stupid woman, but he’d gotten lucky. The workers had traded one of their loveliest daughters to his caste for additional security on a trade route, and Jagdish had been single and recuperating from his wounds, and thus available in time to sign the arbiter’s treaty, so it had all worked out.

    Even his arranged marriage had been meant as an insult, marrying him off to a baker’s daughter, instead of a proper strong woman of the warrior caste who’d provide him with superior sons. His children would be looked down upon as half-caste. Only he liked coming home to Pakpa’s warm smile and kind words, and he had no doubt she’d provide him with many wonderful children. Jagdish had actually come to love his wife, and she seemed fond enough of him.

    So he didn’t want to die tomorrow.

    He must have sighed, because Pakpa snorted herself awake and rolled over. “Huh? What’s wrong?”

    “I can’t sleep.”

    “How come?” She sounded confused. “Was I snoring? My sisters always accused me of snoring.”

    All he could see in the dark was her lovely, general outline, but he had no problem picturing her beautiful face. “No. Your sisters lied because they’re jealous. You sleep like a songbird, delicately perched in a tree.” He thought about telling her what he was going to attempt — to better both of their lives — but he didn’t want to make her worry. “Go back to sleep.”

    Pakpa rolled back over. “I love you.” She was snoring again within a few seconds.

    Jagdish resumed staring at the ceiling beams, pondering dueling and death.

    The next morning Jagdish watched the man he feared the most easily defeat one of the best warriors in the world.

    Their guest was announced at the gate house as swordmaster Nadan Somsak dar Thao, from their mountainous southern neighbor, who had won high status through countless victories, until he’d become the Thakoor of a vassal family. His skin was covered in tattoos designed to strike fear in his enemies and he had a herald to read off a list of all the warriors he’d bested. He’d hired musicians to play drums and was even accompanied by an arbiter who announced that his travel papers had been approved by Chief Judge Harta himself, so Nadan Somsak had showed up with an entourage, legal standing, a great deal of fanfare, and a chip on his shoulder.

    He walked to the center of the prison yard, spread his ink-covered arms wide, and shouted, “Bring me the fallen Protector so that I may defeat him! I have come to claim Angruvadal as my own! I will destroy the criminal and the whole world will sing praises to my name.”

    “He’s a cocky one,” said one of the guards. “I’ve got ten notes says the Black Heart beats him in under two minutes.”

    “You’re on, but only because he’ll slow down to give that tattooed mountain thug some pointers.”

    All of the prison staff who could temporarily escape their duties had climbed the walls and towers to watch the duel. Jagdish noted that they were all making bets, but not a single one was betting on the challenger, but rather on how long he’d last or whether his life would be spared or not. The prisoner might have been the vilest form of criminal, but he was their criminal.

    Haviladar Wat was his second in command and he joined Jagdish on the wall. “They’ve gone to fetch the prisoner.” He reached beneath one of the lamellar plates of his armor and pulled out a watch on a chain. “With your permission, sir, I’ll keep time. That way none of the men get into fights over who loses the bet.”

    A timepiece small enough to fit in a pocket was rare and expensive. “How did you afford that, Wat?”

    The young warrior grinned. “My winnings from betting on these duels, Risaldar. You see, there are marks for every minute of the day. It’s supposed to be very accurate.”

    Jagdish had to squint, and even then he had a hard time seeing anything that small. “Remarkable.”

    The drummer was beating a steady cadence. The man from Thao was still shouting below them. “Bring me the traitor Ashok, so that I may cut his throat and spill his casteless blood! The whore-spawned abomination must pay for the curse he’s brought upon this weak people!”

    “What’s his problem?” Wat asked.

    “The Somsak were a small house, renowned for their skill, supposedly some of the best mountain fighters in the world,” Jagdish explained. “Then a winter plague came through a few generations back and wiped out most of their army. Thao moved quick and invaded while they were weak. I suppose all those farmers were tired of being raided and decided to finish it once and for all. They say the Somsak bearer singlehandedly held a mountain pass while fighting five hundred Thao warriors, but his ancestor blade shattered on the very last one’s shield. They’ve been a vassal house ever since.”

    “That’s quite the story, sir.”

    “I’ve no idea if it’s true or not, but the Somsak think it is.”

    “Still no reason to make an ass of himself.”

    While the challenger continued his rant, the guards opened a gate at the far end of the yard and Black Hearted Ashok entered. There were no drums, heralds, or fanfare. He seemed far calmer than the night Jagdish had first seen him.

    Nadan Somsak turned and saw Ashok coming. “I smell the ocean! It must be a casteless.” He hawked and spit in the dirt. The drummer quit playing and hurried out of the way. “Come here, so I can crack open your skull and wipe my ass with your brains. Look at you. You’re nothing. I can’t believe this is the casteless scum who made the Protectors into a bunch of dupes and fools.”

    Ashok tilted his head to the side. Since he didn’t bother to raise his voice, it was difficult to hear what he was saying from up on the wall. “My life is of no value. I have no status, so you are allowed to insult me freely, but it is illegal to slander an approved order, so please refrain from maligning the Protectors.”

    “The Protectors are a bunch of stuck-up idiots, all swagger, no heart, no balls, and wouldn’t be worth saltwater if they didn’t have the Capitol to prop them up. All the Protectors could be casteless as far as I know. You’re just the only one dumb enough to admit it. It wouldn’t surprise me if the lot of them had been sired by demons and squeezed out of whores. I piss on the Protectors.”

    The warrior from Thao had succeeded in provoking the prisoner’s anger, and Black Hearted Ashok’s emotionless mask slipped just a bit, giving Jagdish a glimpse of the man he’d fought that night in the main hall of Great House Vadal.

    “Hey, Wat, I’ll bet you two hundred notes against that little timepiece of yours that from the time the prisoner draws his sword to winning, you can’t count to ten.”

    The young warrior was happy to take advantage of his naïve commander. “You’re on, Risaldar.”

    Jagdish checked his new pocket watch. He could feel the gears turning inside through the thin metal body, almost like holding a mouse in his hand and feeling the vibration of its tiny, rapid heart. All one had to do was turn a knob several times a day, winding the springs inside, and a needle turned with the time, pointing at all the little dashes on the side that represented the minutes of the day. Though it was easier to just look in the sky and see where the sun was to know what time it was, this was truly a marvel of mechanical science. He’d heard that in the Capitol there were clocks now with two needles, so accurate they had one pointing at the hour and another for the minute.

    His guards were watching from the walls. They’d seen the limp and the giant scar on Jagdish’s arm. They’d heard the versions of the story that had filtered down from the Bidaya’s party guests, and now they were curious to see if their new commander was crazy enough to fight the Black Heart again…

    I wonder what times they are betting on?

    Jagdish was alone in the yard. There was a dark spot in the dirt in front of him where Nadan Somsak had bled that very morning. Surprisingly, the Black Heart hadn’t killed the foul brute. He’d simply drawn and struck him once, fast as lightning, right through the cheek. Nadan Somsak was returning to his mountains without a tongue. Jagdish wondered if Nadan had a wife. Would she be happier that he could no longer speak? Would Pakpa still love him if he came home missing any body parts? If Ashok cut off his ears, then at least he would be able to get some sleep.

    Jagdish smiled.

    The gate opened and the fallen Protector entered. He pulled back his matted hair, looked around, and seemed a bit surprised to see someone wearing a guard’s uniform waiting for him, because the prison guards had seen enough of his duels to know better. As Ashok approached, Jagdish put the marvelous little clock back inside his armor.

    “I am Risaldar Jagdish, new commander of the Cold Stream Prison garrison.”

    Ashok bowed. Jagdish hadn’t thought through the etiquette. The prisoner was technically a casteless which meant he deserved no respect, but he was also a bearer which meant he deserved great respect. The prisoner must have realized why Jagdish was standing there so awkwardly, because he said, “I’m a legal anomaly, but I’m not worthy of your respect. I was born an untouchable and I’m a criminal.”

    Jagdish gave him a small bow anyway.

    Ashok seemed confused. “There’s no need to be respectful to me.”

    “Well, I honestly hadn’t thought of it that way.” Jagdish shrugged. “You beat a dozen warriors in a knife fight. If that’s not worthy of respect, then I don’t know what is.”

    “A curious way of looking at things. Fighting is what I do. You wouldn’t praise an ox for pulling a plow. How may I be of service, Risaldar?”

    Jagdish mouth was suddenly very dry. “I wish to duel.”

    Ashok tilted his head to the side, curious. “I’m only a casteless, and you’re a warrior, but may I speak freely?”

    It was an odd request, as Jagdish was having a very hard time thinking of the most terrifying combatant in the world as an inferior. “You may.”

    “Why?”

    “I wish to prove myself to Angruvadal and earn my family’s place in the first caste.”

    “You have a family? Children?”

    “A wife.”

    “She’ll miss you if you die?”

    “Yes.”

    “Then walk away, Risaldar,” Ashok warned. “There’s nothing to be gained by dying here. I remember you. You were there the night of my crime and you were the best among them.”

    “No. I was second to Sankhamur.”

    “In experience, perhaps, but in integrity, you alone questioned Bidaya’s dishonorable commands, and you alone had the wisdom to not try to fight against an ancestor blade. How many of you died?”

    “Eventually, six of us succumbed to our injuries.”

    “My apologies for your brothers, but it would have been all of you, and perhaps some of the bystanders, if you hadn’t shaken me from my anger and reminded me of what was right. Then, despite your misgivings, you still followed your Thakoor’s command. Obeying such a command is one of the most difficult things for a warrior to do.”

    Jagdish hoped that his men couldn’t hear him from the walls. “I was shamed by that defeat.”

    “You fought well. There was no shame there.”

    “If I wasn’t good enough, then I should have died. I’ve been mocked by my betters ever since. They say that if I had been stronger, then our Thakoor would still be alive and our house wouldn’t be vulnerable. Enemies harass our borders because of our weakness, which means my brothers are out there fighting and dying, and I’m not even allowed to help. This assignment is my punishment. They want me to have to look every day at the face of the man who ruined me.”

    “I may have broken your leg, but it’s obvious I didn’t break your spirit. The Law says a warrior’s life belongs to his superiors, but your superiors are willing to spend your life stupidly. Anyone who mocks you is a fool, and would have done no better in your place. The next one who tells you that, tell him to come and see me.”

    Jagdish actually laughed. “That’ll go over well.”

    “If they’re so very brave, then I’m easy enough to find.”

    “True, but it is simpler to insult my courage than it is to test their own. My purpose in life is to fight, serve my house, and prove myself in combat. I can’t do that if I’m wasting away the rest of my days babysitting hostages and criminals. I don’t see much choice but to fight you. Who knows? Maybe I’ll get lucky.”

    “And maybe I’ll be unlucky and kill another good warrior who deserves better. I’m tired of killing. If you wish to take Angruvadal, then I’m required to wield it, and when Angruvadal is drawn, mercy cannot be promised. I’m legally obligated to do my best against everyone who tests me, and I know you’re good enough that I’ll actually have to try.”

    “Thank you.” For an unstoppable killing machine, Black Hearted Ashok seemed to be a very reasonable man.

    Ashok appeared to mull something over for a moment. “So we can agree. You don’t want to die, and I don’t want to kill you. I have an idea, Risaldar. You’re good, but you’re not good enough to beat me today. I mean no offense.”

    “If I was offended, I’d suppose we’d just have to duel about it.”

    “True.” Ashok said thoughtfully, as if Jagdish had brought up some brilliant legal point. “But here is my proposition. I’ve nothing better to do, and I’m obligated to remain here until judgment is pronounced. While I await execution, I can teach you. Eventually you could be good enough to beat me, and then we can have a proper duel.”

    Of the many possible outcomes of Jagdish’s challenge, he’d not expected that. But if he could learn even a fraction of Ashok’s skills, surely he could redeem himself among his caste. “Hmmm…Interesting. I’m listening.”

    “I have no status. You’re the commander of this prison. There’s no reason you can’t order me to spar against you with practice swords. I’d have no choice but to obey. Let the city know that Risaldar Jagdish has so little fear that he trains against a monster. Let’s see if any of those high-status warriors have the spine to do that.”

    “What kind of madman is brave enough to spar against such a fearsome killer? I like it. Let those soft-palmed fops lord it over me in their estates, because in their hearts they’ll know that Jagdish is braver than they are. Ha! I like this plan.” Jagdish turned and shouted at the guards along the wall, who were nervously waiting to see if their commander was going to get butchered or not. “You! Go to the armory and bring back two wooden swords.”

    There were a lot of confused looks shared, but one of the nayaks ran off to fetch some practice weapons as directed. He doubted any of the men would win the betting pool today.

    “I must caution you, Risaldar. I am trained in the ways of the Protector Order, and our methods are unforgiving at best. It isn’t uncommon for our acolytes to die during training.”

    “I’m no mere student, Prisoner. I’m a four-year veteran who has seen a house war and more border skirmishes than you have fingers.”

    Ashok smiled as if Jagdish had just told a very amusing anecdote. “Of course, Risaldar. I’m sure this will prove enlightening.”

    “Very well. We will meet here every day…” Jagdish pulled out the pocket watch. He opened the lid and pointed at the slowly moving needle. “At this time.”

    Ashok glanced down at the watch. “What does that mean?”

    There were a lot of little marks. “I don’t rightly know.”