Son of the Black Sword - eARC

  They’d only just found out Pakpa was with child. If Jagdish was to be executed for his failures, then his wife would be sent back to her old caste, and his son—for Jagdish was certain it was a boy—wouldn’t get to be a warrior. It was best to stay, to keep his head down, to let this controversy blow over. Again he’d been wounded doing his duty, and wasn’t that enough?

  Pakpa was a good woman, but she’d been raised among the worker caste, so she couldn’t understand that a warrior had no choice.

  Guards were stationed along the walls, and they weren’t his men. They’d seen him coming a long ways off and had warned the others. They met him behind crossed spears.

  “I am Risaldar Jagdish.”

  The reply was stony. “We know who you are.” But the spears parted and they let Jagdish through anyway.

  It struck him as odd that the great gates were open. But why wouldn’t they be? There were very few prisoners left to watch, and none of them would be out of their cells. Many had been slaughtered that night and more had escaped. Some had been recaptured and returned, but many more had just been executed when they’d been discovered by warriors eager to avenge the insult against their house. Jagdish entered the yard and looked around. Bodies were stacked in piles, awaiting cremation. Prisoners who had survived had been questioned, and the troublesome had been hung. Their corpses dangled from ropes, swaying in the breeze. Casteless were still gathering body parts to throw on the piles. Buzzards circled overhead, hopeful the humans would leave soon.

  He was surprised to see that an old warrior wearing the insignia of a phontho, a commander of five hundred, present. Someone of such high status wouldn’t normally be inspecting a prison. He was accompanied by a masked Inquisitor. The two of them were studying a nearly headless body that had been dragged across the yard and hung on a pole. A tattered cloak snapped in the wind. All that was really left of the man’s head was the lower jaw and some jagged gobs of meat, but Jagdish recognized the intricate armor of the man he’d fought. A soldier whispered in the phontho’s ear, and the old man turned to regard Jagdish. His wrinkled face bore the scars of blade and burns, and this one looked to have earned his status through achievement rather than birth.

  It hurt to bow, but Jagdish did, as contrite and low as his stiches and bruises would allow.

  “Get up.” The senior officer approached. The Inquisitor was like his shadow. “You were in command here?”

  “I was.”

  “I read your report.”

  Jagdish had been questioned while in his hospital bed. “My testimony was as true and complete as possible.”

  “Then why are you here?”

  “To help.”

  “To help?” The phontho laughed like that was the funniest thing he’d heard in a long time. The Inquisitor didn’t make a sound. “To help?”

  Jagdish swallowed hard. “Yes, sir.”

  “Every man under your command on the night watch died. Your responsibility was to keep these prisoners secure, and now most of them are rampaging across the countryside. Valuable hostages escaped, and rather than our collecting ransoms or swapping them for our own captured brothers, they’re running for the borders. Worst of all, the most infamous criminal in Lok has escaped. Our Thakoor has been insulted and now he’s crawling up my ass to bring back the Black Heart’s head. Is there any possible way in which you did not fail, Risaldar?”

  He pointed at the nearly headless corpse. “I fought that one.”

  The phontho nodded. “I see. And how many of your men were on duty here that night?”

  “Eighteen, sir.”

  “And you consider eighteen to one a fair trade? Bad luck and bad at math. No wonder no other command wanted you.”

  That stung. Jagdish was a proud man, and he knew he was a good officer. It wasn’t his fault that he kept ending up fighting supernatural menaces. “He was a wizard,” Jagdish stated. “The other Protector turned into a great black bird and flew away.”

  The phontho’s hard eyes narrowed dangerously. “I read that in your report. I was hoping that was just because the surgeons had given you some poppy to help you sleep. What you didn’t see is that those Protectors swept through this entire place, slitting throats, and your men were so ill prepared and poorly trained that hardly any of them even managed to fight back. Pathetic.”

  It was one thing to be insulted himself, but to have his men questioned was intolerable. “They were good warriors. They did their duty, but how could they be prepared to fight against magic?”

  “There’s some truth to that, Risaldar.” The phontho softened just a bit. “It’s bad enough that once-great Protectors have turned to treachery, but witchcraft as well…These are dark times.”

  “I don’t believe they were Protectors at all. I have fought a real Protector. These fought with trickery, not with real skill.”

  The Inquisitor spoke for the first time. “Twice now you’ve been shamed by Protectors, yet you still defend them? Curious.”

  It was difficult to keep his emotions under control. “This wizard didn’t fight like a Protector, and I saw no sign of Ashok Vadal.”

  “Are you suggesting he’s innocent?” The Inquisitor’s question was flat and emotionless. “He certainly isn’t here.”

  That was a trap. No matter how hotheaded a warrior might be, only a stupid one would verbally spar with an Inquisitor. “I only speak the truth. I don’t interpret it.” Talking back to that mask was asking for trouble, so Jagdish focused on the phontho, who at least seemed like an honorable member of their caste. “Allow me to join the hunt for Ashok. I have fought him.”

  “Many times, from what I’ve been told. You’re dumb, but brave, I’ll give you that. However, I believe when it comes to the Fallen, your reason has been compromised. I have an entire legion searching for him already.”

  “Then let me hunt down the wizards whom I know are responsible for this.”

  “I’m afraid you don’t get it, Risaldar. They are one and the same. Ashok and his Protector brethren also destroyed the garrison at Sutpo Bridge. Nearly an entire paltan, a worker’s village, and a member of the first caste were killed. Men, women, and children, hell, even the horses and dogs, so many bodies hacked up and tossed into the river that they’re still washing up in villages downstream. It wasn’t battle, it was savagery. It was a message, a declaration of war against order and decency, and it was delivered by the Black Heart himself.”

  Jagdish couldn’t believe it. “That doesn’t sound like the work of Ashok.”

  “Five years ago I watched the Black Heart almost singlehandedly cut his way through a Makao legion, and afterwards I watched him carry out a judgment malicious enough to end a house war. Don’t tell me what you think he’s capable of, because I’ve seen it with my own eyes. He is the ultimate killer.”

  “Yes, but he’s not without honor.”

  The phontho gritted his teeth. “Enough. You’ve survived the two most shameful, humiliating moments in our recent history. You allowed your Thakoor to die and now her murderer to escape. You’re either cursed will ill fortune or totally incompetent. I don’t want your help, Risaldar. No one does.”

  Jagdish’s knees had gone weak. “My assignment then?”

  “I’ll have papers drawn up discharging your duties. Maybe someday someone more merciful than I am will see fit to obligate you to some assignment again. Until then, there’s nothing for you in House Vadal.” The phontho spit on the ground at Jagdish’s feet and then walked away.

  He was unneeded…That was the worst thing that could happen to a warrior. No unit would have him. There would be no assignments, no opportunities, not even a stipend to live off of. How would he support his wife? His son? He would have to turn to mercenary work, selling his sword to guard merchant’s goods or some other low-status behavior just to eat.

  The Inquisitor had remained there, studying him through the narrow eye holes of his unnerving mask. “Other than luck or incompetence, there is a third possibility for y
our presence at these unfortunate events.”

  “And what would that be?”

  “Treachery…A suspicious man might think that you were in league with these rebellious Protectors.”

  Was that meant to be a threat? “I am no traitor,” Jagdish snarled.

  The mask moved up and down in the semblance of a nod. “Of course. I was only trying to comfort you, for it’s surely better to be thought of as stupid than a criminal. At least the stupid don’t go beneath the hot knives. There will be rumors and some will surely say such unpleasant things about you, but if I thought you were in league with the Black Heart then we would be having this conversation in a very different setting.”

  How dare he? But Jagdish kept his emotions in check. “I will demonstrate my loyalty.”

  “Of course you will,” the Inquisitor said in the most patronizing manner. “Farewell, Risaldar. I will be staying here until the Black Heart is found. Should you remember anything else of note, you may ask for me at the castle. I am Senior Inquisitor Taraba.”

  The Inquisitor left him standing there with Lome’s battered corpse dangling over the courtyard, mocking him. He was tempted to draw his sword and hack the ropes, to drop the body into a rotting heap into the dirt, but that would only annoy the phontho further. “I will prove my loyalty!” Jagdish shouted to no one in particular. Lome could no longer hear him, and no lawful man believed in ghosts, but Jagdish whispered to him anyway. “Tell your wretched brothers I am coming for them, and that Jagdish the Warrior will kill them all.”

  Jagdish’s hands were shaking as he stormed back toward the gates. This couldn’t be. He was a soldier of Great House Vadal. He’d fought and bled for his brothers, and all of those accomplishments were being torn away. He ignored the sneers of the men at the gates and began walking back toward the city. His heart was heavy. He had no idea how he was going to explain this to his wife. She’d thought that she’d been marrying up.

  More warriors were approaching up the road to Cold Stream. They were of his paltan, who had been lucky enough to have been on the day watch. They appeared haggard and exhausted, covered in dried mud and scratches. Of course, they’d probably been chasing escapees the whole time, and it looked like they’d had a bit of luck. They were leading several men in chains. One of the warriors saw him and exclaimed, “Risaldar Jagdish! You’re here.”

  He lifted one hand in greeting. The men visibly cheered up. At least these warriors knew him for what he was. “I’m sorry,” was all he could say.

  But they would have none of it. These men didn’t want apologies. They paid him respects and seemed overjoyed to see him. Jagdish will know what to do. They understood that it wasn’t stupidity or dereliction of duty, but just a good soldier’s fate that things randomly went bad. Even though they’d not been on duty that night, they’d been chastised too. The entire paltan had lost face, and low-status prison guards didn’t have much to begin with.

  “I’m afraid I’m not going to be your officer anymore,” he told them. There was a chorus of groans and complaining, as was expected whenever low-ranking warriors lost a leader they actually had respect for. Still reeling, he heard their words, but his brain was having a difficult time understanding any of them.

  Then Jagdish noticed who one of the prisoners was. “You…”

  The large worker was even dirtier than the soldiers hauling him in. The other prisoners kept their heads down and their eyes averted, but this one stared right back at him with far too much pride, as if they were equals. He folded his thick arms, causing a jingle of chains. “My name is Gutch.”

  “Uppity worker-caste scum,” a guard said.

  “Top of the worker-caste scum,” Gutch corrected. “Forge master smith of Vadal City before my unfortunate legal troubles.”

  “You killed the wizard Lome,” Jagdish said.

  “I never caught his name before I crushed his head. And you’re welcome for that by the way.” In the daylight Jagdish could see that the prisoner was even more imposing than he’d remembered. He had a chest like a barrel and a big square head. A cursory glance would lead one to think that he was a bit doughy, surprising considering he’d been living on meager prison rations, but having seen him hoist up the gate bar, Jagdish knew the man was as strong as an elephant. “How about by way of repayment for the favor of saving your life you have these guys look the other way and give me a ten-minute head start?”

  Jagdish turned to the senior nayak. “What crime sent him to Cold Stream?”

  “Trafficking in illegal magic. The Inquisition says he’s still got a year on his sentence.”

  “Okay. How about a five-minute head start then?”

  Jagdish walked over until he was directly in front of the prisoner. Now Gutch was wearing different clothing, far nicer than his blanket with a head hole, but he smelled like he’d spent the night hiding in a pig pen, wallowing in filth.

  “Careful, sir. He’s a clever one,” the nayak warned him. “Don’t let the appearance fool you. We found him hiding in the finest brothel in the city. It was only a day after the breakout and he already looked like a banker and had a wallet full of notes. The mess didn’t happen until he leapt out a window and we had to chase him through the filthiest stinking canals in the city.”

  “And you slow bastards only caught me because I got stuck trying to wiggle through a sewer grate. Curse these broad shoulders, I know my mother certainly did when I was born—” One of the warriors helpfully thumped the prisoner over the head with the butt of a spear. “Ouch!”

  Jagdish didn’t ask the men where the prisoner’s new money had gone, as men of their low status were paid stipends barely sufficient to live on, so they’d more than likely pocketed it, but he had a suspicion about how the prisoner had earned it so quickly. “The talisman you took from Lome, you sold it?”

  Gutch snorted. “I’m not saying nothing about nobody.”

  “I don’t give a damn about your criminal friends. That night, when you killed the wizard, you said you could sense magic…”

  Gutch nodded. “Yeah, sure. I’ve always had the gift for that, like a bloodhound they used to say.”

  Jagdish stroked his chin thoughtfully. An idea was forming. “Like a bloodhound…Stronger the scent, the easier the hunt, I imagine.”

  “Depends, but basically something like that.”

  “So while you were here with Angruvadal, surely you’d recognize its scent?”

  “Of course! That sword is the strongest damned thing I’ve ever—” Gutch caught himself. “Hang on. I know what you’re thinking…No! Oceans no. All right, boys, lead me back to my cell.”

  According to the Law, Jagdish was still commander of this prison until the phontho’s papers were filed, and that meant that its charges were his to do with as he saw fit. “Unchain him.”

  “No, really, on that whole head start thing I was only joking! I’m really not much of a runner.”

  “Sir, are you sure?”

  “I’m taking the prisoner Gutch into my custody.” Worst case scenario, the prisoner would escape again, but it wasn’t like they could demote Jagdish much further than they already had. Or maybe the giant would smash his head like he’d done to the false Protector, but better a fast death than a slow, embarrassing one.

  “What do you intend to do?” one of his men asked.

  “I will find and kill those who murdered our brothers, and restore our name,” Jagdish vowed.

  The warriors cheered.

  “Oh hell…” Gutch muttered.

  Chapter 32

  Ashok spent a few days down in the dark hole. It suited his mood.

  His quarters were a hidden compartment on the barge. It had been cleverly designed by criminals for smuggling goods and people. There was a trap door that opened directly into the river, for drinking, washing, and dumping waste, and plenty of air holes for just enough light to see by. Ashok wondered how many lawbreakers had escaped him over the years because of his hesitancy to go onto the water. It w
asn’t as if Protectors didn’t know river traffic existed—it was vital for trade—but it was so distasteful that he’d always thought of it as business best left to the casteless.

  The constant rocking still made him uncomfortable, but he was used to it by now. The wounds from the arrows had already healed. The poison had been purged from his system. He could have gone out into the daylight, but Ashok was content to stay in the hidden room, alone…mostly.

  Keta, the so-called Keeper of Names, had paid him a few visits. He’d spout some nonsense about praying for the Forgotten’s blessings and mad prophecies, but Ashok ignored him until he went away. The woman brought him food consisting of rice and fish. He was casteless, so it was appropriate fare, but he gagged whenever he tried to put the ocean garbage in his mouth, and ended up picking the fish out. After the first few times she’d quit bringing him that unclean filth. Other than that the woman seemed content not to talk. He’d only learned her name—Thera—because of Keta’s continual babblings. The barge was a large one, heavy with cargo, and he only knew the rest of the crew by the sound of their never-ending songs. The casteless avoided him. Whether out of fear or because they’d been ordered to, Ashok didn’t know or care.

  Days and nights bled together. Ashok didn’t know how long he’d been on the river. It was like he’d traded one prison cell for another, only this one was humid and mobile. He had orders, straight from the Chief Judge, that he was to make his way to Akershan, but the barge was heading south, deeper into the interior, so even by sitting here he was still doing as he was told. The Law was still being upheld.

  It was a strange thing, upholding the Law by breaking it.

  One night someone opened the secret door and poked their head in. In the dark he could barely tell it was the woman, Thera. He still didn’t know what she looked like. “Come with me.”