Into This Wild Abyss, page 31
part #1 of Vermilion Archives Series
We conquered nations, destroyed cities.
Ja’pa is turned to ruin, its crops withered.
Tavana is humbled, its prince pacified.
No other king is greater than us.
By the panel, Natan noticed stones missing from the wall. He bent over and looked inside. There was a chamber beyond, a large marble box in the center — a sarcophagus. The hole was almost big enough for him to fit in, but for all his curiosity Natan knew he could not linger. If the torch went out he would die alone, lost forever in some pre-imperial king’s tomb.
The passage continued through the other side of the chamber, this time gently sloping downwards. Natan began to hope for the first time the passage actually took him under the hill and might have another entrance on the other side. He passed side rooms and more alcoves, pillaged long ago by grave robbers. Then he came up against it; a brick wall sealed off the passage ahead. The only option was a smaller tunnel that skewed right off the main passage. Natan paused. So far, he had not turned any corner or dared do anything that might get him lost. But he had no choice. He entered the smaller tunnel, stooping with the low ceiling. Necessarily, the torch came close to him, singeing his hair.
The tunnel dropped down into a chamber, and beyond that was the familiar square plug he had discovered at the other end. He ran his fingers over it, secured a grip and pulled. It did not budge. It was lodged firmly in place. On closer inspection, Natan noticed mortar still in the cracks. The grave robbers must have come the other way. I’ll just have to break it.
Natan cast about for a stone, but the chamber and tunnel were clear of debris, as clean as the day the ancient king was sealed away. He hurried back towards the main chamber, dashing in and out of side rooms, looking for something — anything he could use. The torch flickered and hissed. Natan glanced at it; he would not have long. Soon he’d be in total darkness.
Panic set in. Breath deep, he told himself. Control yourself. Focus. He took a deep breath and measured his steps, trying not to run. At the main chamber Natan found the gap in the wall where grave robbers had broken in. Stone chips lay scattered around the base of the wall, none big enough to be useful. Natan knelt down and stuck an arm through the gap, feeling about for something bigger. His fingers brushed a chunk of stone the size of his hand. Grabbing it, Natan returned to the tunnel and the exit plug. He hammered away, sending chips flying.
“Come on,” he hissed, putting all his strength into the strikes.
With a puff the torch died, leaving an amber glow. Natan blinked, the final image of the chamber wall burnt into his vision as a heavy darkness enveloped him like a wet rag. His lips quivered and his stomach cramped. He felt light headed. The end is near…
“No,” he screamed, rallying himself for a final effort.
Grit showered his face and caught in his eyes. Suddenly, the plug shifted. Two more strikes and it landed with a muffled thud at Natan’s feet. The expected rush of fresh air did not come. Instead the chamber filled with a damp, earthy smell. Natan groaned, realizing the implication, and tested the packed earth with his palm. There was nothing else he could do. He could not go back, so he started digging.
He tore at the earth, scouring his skin and snagging fingernails on roots. For once Natan was glad the torch was out; he could use two hands, and he did not see the damage he did to himself. He was up to his elbows when he felt sweet, cold, fresh air breeze over his fingers. It did not take long to widen the hole after that. Natan boosted himself and squeezed through the gap, rolling into grass on the other side. He lay there, looking up at the night sky, sucking in air and wiping tears from his eyes.
After composing himself, Natan sat up; the hill at his back. Before him the great plains stretched out, cast in deep shadow under a starless night. Only the distant glow of Pao’an gave Natan a sense of direction, as a beacon welcoming him home. He gripped his knees and stood, then walked, stumbling along like a drunk returning from a night out. Every fiber of his being wanted him to stop. Every breath became painful, but Natan refused to give in. As dawn broke he leaned against a boundary marker and caught his breath. He looked back to where he had come from, then towards Pao’an. Three horses galloped towards him, green pennants streaming from their lances. Natan straightened and walked towards them.
“Halt!” one cried when within hailing distance.
Natan stopped and raised his hands. He was home.
⁂
Firelight glistened in the eyes of the warriors. Lord Azraik walked among them, his thumbs stuck in his collar, and his chest puffed out. His words were unintelligible to Po, but the passion of the lord’s speech was evident. His warriors hung on his every word. Azraik stopped and focused on each in turn, the silence pregnant with anticipation. He said two words more and returned to his camp seat, a head and shoulders above those seated on the ground.
Ashara rose and picked her way between the tangled limbs. Po had hardly heard her speak her native tongue before, and when Ashara opened her lips he saw a different side to her. Gone was her accent and stilted choice of words, replaced with confidence and cadence.
“I hear our names,” Anjan whispered.
“It’s about us,” Po replied. “But I can’t hear... yes, I can. Your name.”
“And your’s,” Anjan added. Po raised an eyebrow and glanced at his friend.
“Bokos,” Anjan said. “Haven’t you picked that up yet?”
“No,” Po said. “But that’s not my name.”
“It’s what they call you,” Anjan said with a grin.
“Better not be anything bad.”
“I think it means pig.” Po jabbed an elbow at Anjan, and Anjan drew back. A warrior grunted and cuffed Po over the back of his head. Po ducked and shrunk down into his shoulders.
“Sorry,” he whispered, exchanging sideways glances with Anjan.
Ashara came to stand by them, and with a final statement yielded to one of Azraik’s companions, but remained standing. Po touched her foot.
“What did you say?” he hissed.
“Shush, let me listen,” Ashara said.
“Fine,” Po said, eyes downcast.
Azraik’s companion drew back his shoulders and puffed up his body as he walked back and forth before the warband. He emphasised his points with a single clap of the hand, or a finger jabbed into the air. Po wished he could see Ashara’s reaction, but her face was dark and turned away from him.
“They’re discussing what to do with you,” a voice said, startling Po. Hand on beating heart, Po spun about on his backside. It was the translator, crouching at his shoulder.
“What are they going to do?” Po asked once recovered. The translator shrugged.
“It’s up to Azraik. But he’ll listen to opinions first.”
“What’s the mood? What’re they saying?” The translator frowned and indicated the companion.
“He thinks your friend’s story is too convenient. He wants you taken as prisoner to Baki, to be traded at the end of the war for Kh’areen prisoners.”
“And Azraik?”
“I already said. He’s non-committed, cautiously testing the band.”
“You believe us though, right?” The translator raised his palms and leaned in closer.
“I’ve not seen the document they talk of.”
“Didn’t Azraik show you?”
“He’s Kh’areen. They don’t write sensitive information.” He tapped his temple. “They keep it here. Your problem is convincing these warriors that your mission is as important as your friend says it is.” Po folded his arms, feeling his ribs beneath his skin. He’d lost a lot of weight. He did not know if he could survive a trek across the open steppe in winter — not without a change of clothes and a good diet.
“Here we go,” the translator whispered. Azraik stood and took some time to tuck his thumbs back into his collar and clear his throat.
“What’s he saying?” Po asked nervously.
“The time is late, and he’s heard enough. He’ll discuss it more with his closest companions.” Warriors began to stand and dust off their breeches, filling the air with chatter.
“I guess we wait,” the translator said.
Po and Anjan sat by the fire, struggling between them to turn four squares of canvas into passable shoes.
“No, it’s like this,” Anjan said, exaggerating the movement of the needle.
“That’s what I did,” Po said. Anjan took Po’s shoe off him and completed the loop himself.
“How’d you do that?”
“Like I showed you.”
“You two eaten?” Ashara asked, emerging from the darkness. Po nodded towards the bones by the fire. Ashara sat beside them with a roasted leg bone between her teeth.
“I’m starving,” she said from the corner of her mouth. Po watched her eat. She really is beautiful.
“You didn’t have to come back for us, you know.” Ashara regarded him but continued chewing.
“It was my choice,” she said.
“You were almost home,” Po continued. “You’d be in Baki now if it weren’t for us. I mean, we’re happy to see you. But, well, you know.” Po berated himself for not choosing his words better. Lowering the bone, Ashara furrowed her eyebrows.
“And you were going to save yourself?”
“No.”
“So, I came back.” Anjan jabbed an elbow into Po’s side and leaned across to Ashara.
“I think,” he said as Po winced. “He means we’re grateful you came back. Whatever happens, you’ve given us a second chance.”
“Thanks, Anjan,” Ashara said.
“That’s what I meant,” Po said. “Thank you.” Ashara’s features softened, though Po sensed an inner tension remained as if she fought to relax. Her fingers fidgeted with the bone, and she turned it over in her hands.
“I shouldn’t have left things as I did. I was angry. I...”
Anjan coughed nervously.
“I’ll clean up, shall I?” he said, awkwardly getting to his feet. They watched him go.
“I’m sorry,” Ashara said. “You never meant to hurt me.”
“No, I’m sorry,” Po said. “I should’ve been open with you. It seems like so long ago, but I was told telling anyone would put them in danger. I didn’t want that. If you were caught, I didn’t want them torturing you for information.”
“They’d do it anyway,” Ashara said. “I… no. I don’t think we should do this again. It happened. We all make mistakes. Only Tanri knows how much time we have left together, let’s not part again in anger.” A lump caught in Po’s throat.
“I’m glad you’re here, Ashara.”
“I can’t say the same to you,” she said with a smile.
“Will they release us?”
Ashara leaned over. Her hand touched Po’s knee reassuringly.
“I don’t know,” she said. “But I’ve done the best I can.” Po placed his hand on hers.
“I’ll miss you,” he said. Ashara looked away and sighed.
“Me too.” Po did not want the moment to end. The spell was broken. A hand squeezed his shoulder, the fingers firm and commanding.
“Bokos,” Azraik said, forcing his way between the pair and sitting with his feet out towards the fire. “Kh'olun da?” Po glared at him, barely containing his irritation at the interruption. Azraik appeared not to notice.
“He wants to know if you’ve eaten,” Ashara translated.
“Tell him I have,” Po said. “Thank you.” The translator joined them, taking Anjan’s spot, looking distinctly less relaxed than the Kh’areen lord. Anjan returned and sat opposite.
“He’s made a decision,” the translator said, prompted by the lord. A knot tightened in Po’s stomach and his fists balled up. Lord Azraik clapped him on the back and laughed, saying something to the translator.
“He says don’t be so nervous. Sick prisoners aren’t worth as much.”
“What?” Anjan demanded. “They’re not letting us go?”
“Quiet,” Ashara hissed. “Listen.” Azraik clamped a hand onto Po’s knee, squeezing it, and leaned over, talking sternly with his eyes locked on Po’s. Po met his gaze and held it. Azraik stopped and let the translator speak.
“Lord Azraik says, his people fight with iron. They charge their enemies on horseback and trample them into the dirt. This is the way of war.” Azraik continued, so close Po could smell the spice on his breath. “He says, he grew up with an axe in one hand and a sling in the other. He is a warrior. But a man who will not fight is a suckling goat ready for the fire pit. In the wild the terror bird and the wolf prey on weaker animals, so in life the strong dominate the weak.”
Po did not blink, not even once. He stayed focused on Azraik, drawing on his Ba’re training for concentration. He did not know what game the Kh’areen lord was playing, but he knew if he looked away he lost.
“You, Po, are his prisoner. While he fights with iron, you rely on words. Words did not save you from him, and yet you claim the words written on sheets of paper will win the war. When have words ever won a war?” Po waited for Azraik to continue, but the lord fell silent, watching him. When it became obvious Azraik didn’t plan to continue, Po spoke.
“Tell him this: war is what happens when people run out of words. But even then, words have power. I’ve seen you encouraging your warriors. I saw you speaking today. You know your words matter. Your enemy is Jano Maretaki. My enemy is Jano Maretaki. These sheets of paper, as you call them, speak the truth, compiled by one of the most trusted men in Pao’an, and will weaken Jano’s moral authority.”
“His what?” the translator said. Po searched for a better word.
“His command,” he said. “These words will weaken his command.” Azraik listened to the reply and opened his mouth to speak, but Po cut him off. “Gosh Azraik, let me weaken your enemy. Then you use iron and horses to scatter him across the grassy plain as dust beneath your feet.” Po hoped his words sounded as compelling in translation as they sounded in his head. Azraik remained silent a long time, his eyes not moving, his lips as firm as cured leather. Then he broke into a wide grin.
“Da bana kel abeega,” he said. “gidh'di abee gosh dabi u din.” The translator cleared his throat.
“You think you can bargain with him, but Lord Azraik is lord of war, keeper of the gates of war.” Po broke eye contact and turned to the translator. Though a cold night, the man sweated and tugged at his collar.
“What does he mean?” Po demanded. Azraik spoke.
“You go free, not because you bargain, but because Lord Azraik, bountiful in his mercy, wills it. Because he thinks it is good.”
“We can go?” Anjan squeaked.
“Really?” Po asked. Ashara fired off questions in Kh’areen and soon everyone talked at once. Azraik silenced them.
“You leave this night. Your monastery is not far from here — in the mountains to the southwest. In daylight you will see them. Take this document and make the secrets known. May the monks there print ten thousand copies so all the world can read it.”
“I think there’s more people than —”
“Po!” Ashara barked.
“Sorry.” Lord Azraik stood, and the others followed.
“Lord Azraik says, your name should not be Bokos, but Bo’chin.” Po glanced at the smiling faces and sensed he was the butt of a joke.
“What’s that mean?”
“Bokos is pig,” Ashara said. “Bo’chin is monkey. He thinks you talk like one.” Po looked down at his bony, wraith-like body.
“And pig? Why did they name me that? I don’t look like one.” Azraik understood without need of translation. He cupped two hands to his mouth and squealed like a pig stuck with a branding iron. Everyone except Po laughed at the imitation.
“I don’t sound like that!” Po protested. “I don’t! Do I?”
It was just before dawn. The land was still dark, with nothing but the slightest gray glow on the horizon. A small party gathered beyond the Kh’areen pickets. Po stamped his feet and rubbed his hands.
“It’s not far, a day or two at most,” Ashara said. “How are the shoes?”
“They’ll do,” said Po. “Thanks for the hood.” Po couldn’t see Ashara’s face, but he heard a puff of air suggesting a smile.
“You don’t have tinder and flint do you?” Anjan asked.
“No,” said Ashara. “No fire. It’s not safe.”
“I agree,” said the merchant of Posan. “You don’t need the attention.”
“Not even for a hot cup of kaja?”
“There’s none anyway,” Po said. Grass crunched and they turned towards the dark shape looming from the night. Lord Azraik was flanked by two of his companions. He spoke in a low voice, and Po felt a roughspun bag pushed into his hands.
“He says the document’s in the bag.”
“And our referral letters?” Po asked.
“He says all papers are in the bag.”
“Bring fire,” Po said. “I’d like to check.”
“No. Eyes could be watching the camp. We don’t know how far the imperial scouts are from us. You’ll have to go as far and as fast as you can before the light reveals you’re gone.”
“If,” Anjan postulated cautiously. “They have eyes on the camp. Won’t they notice us missing in the morning and give pursuit?”
“Possibly,” the translator said without waiting for an answer from the lord.
“Speed,” Ashara said. “Don’t slow down. Just go as far as you can and don’t stop.”
“How about...” Anjan began, but Lord Azraik cut him off. Ashara translated.
“If the enemy is close, we’ll delay them.” Po paused. He did not know how to say goodbye. He sensed the tension around him.
“Well, we better start,” said Anjan. “Dawn can’t be far off.”
“Stay safe,” Ashara said. “May Tanri watch over you.”
“We’ll meet again,” Po said, struggling to keep his voice from cracking.
“Don’t say that,” Ashara said. Po wished the others would leave him alone with Ashara one last time, but he knew the time had come. He forced himself to turn his back.
“Po, Anjan,” Ashara said. “We part as friends. I’ll never forget you.”
