Chapter Twenty

  All The Works of Man

  Mar sat atop his grey gelding, sweating. The sun beat down, making the city of Sava shimmer in the heat. He scanned the town with his one good eye. He lifted the eye patch over his left eye and wiped away the sweat with a handkerchief that had built up and made it itch. The city of Sava sprawled across a low rise beside the Padesh River. The regiment was arrayed on another low rise that sat opposite the city. The rest of the land between the Padesh and Brurapura Rivers was a low, flat floodplain carpeted with endless farms. Beyond Sava and the Padesh River, he could see jungle-covered hills rise from the delta. That was their goal. Cross the river and follow the long, snaking road up through those dense forests of Desha to find the city of Drahk, where the rebel-king Khaung Maw held out against his tyrant brother, Sarawa Maw. Sava and that river were far from the final challenge, but it was perhaps the most significant single military obstacle remaining. Beside Mar, Havor and Dryden sat on their steeds. Havor on his black stallion. Dryden on his bay mare. Both men sat tall, heads held high and commanding. Pugh was further off, looking through his spyglass at the city's edge where the enemy hastily erected barricades. The town had only the smallest of walls, built only of bamboo. It was more to keep out wild animals than armies.

  “Remember, we need not take the city. Only force our crossing of the Padesh,” Havor reminded them. Then he turned to Mar, “We may need your services today, my friend.” His voice was soft; he knew something of the cost the catalysts inflicted—at least he knew it as well as a normal man could. Mar had tried to explain the cost to him several times. He was unsure how well his explanations had been understood, but it had made Havor less demanding of his powers. That was something.

  They would never truly understand the cost of sorcery. You imbibed powerful narcotics, became addicted to them, were laid low by them, and then poured out your strongest memories and feelings into them. A wizard rewrote reality into forms that could break weaker minds. He had undergone such painful training to learn to wield magic as a weapon. At the end of it all, he ruined himself to cast these spells, relived the very worst moments of his life and laid them bare for all to see. When his magics were done, he would be utterly bereft of vitality. He would be reduced to riding in a cart with the baggage until he had slept enough. Still, he knew his job. He was a war wizard. Weakness had been whipped out of him at the academy. He took his pouch and began rolling one of his aethium cigarettes.

  “What would you have me do?” He asked as he sprinkled a pinch of indigo dust into the tobacco.

  “Do not imbibe yet. Hold off. Let the cannons do their bloody work on their meagre walls and their infantry. They may have drakes, or something worse. Take care of any surprises.”

  “Very well.”

  A rider approached on a white horse, one of the artillery lieutenants. Mar did not know him well, “Sir, we are ready to commence the bombardment!” He called out.

  Havor scanned the city one final time, “Very well. Begin.” The colonel called back.

  Dryden seemed to grunt at the words. Of all the senior officers of the 13th, he was the only one who had seen Vurun destroyed. He had argued against this action. He had argued that a quick charge across the bridge was the better strategy. He did not want to see innocent people burned. Mar had agreed, but it was not their decision. Now that the choice was made, the task was theirs to carry out.

  The lieutenant tugged his reins, spurred his horse, and cantered back to the line of cannons arrayed across the low hill. As soon as the man was gone, Dryden replied in a hushed tone so those of lower rank could not hear the dispute, “Must we use incendiary shot?” To someone watching, it would seem two friends chatting amicably.

  Havor held his chin high and gave no sign that this was anything other than a polite conversation, but Mar could tell he was annoyed at the questioning, “As I told you, I would leave nothing to chance here. I would lose as few men taking this city as we can. We’ve none to spare. We must have that bridge. The quickest and safest way to have it is to reduce Sava utterly. I only do what our survival requires.”

  Dryden’s face darkened slightly as the first cannons fired. The horses shift nervously at the suddenness of the blasts. The cannon’s barrels were raised. They could only raise so far, not high like mortars, but high enough for this kind of bombardment. The shots arced into the sky, then fell downward. As they fell, perhaps fifty feet above the ground, the shots burst like fireworks, exploding into bright sparks of white and orange light that seemed to float slowly to the ground. Where the sparks touched the thatched roofs of the city, smoke billowed, followed by gouts of flame. The city began to burn.

  “Wonder not why we make enemies of such people wherever we go,” Dryden said under his breath.

  They watched through the day as the city of Sava burned. Flames rose above. Cries could be heard, carried on the afternoon breeze. Smoke billowed and darkened the sky. The city was not large, and the fires did not take long to spread to most corners. Only the bridge and a few temples along the river, which were built all in stone, refused to burn with the rest. People fled down to the water, where they swam or waded away from the city. Havor let them go. Eventually, the Rhakani soldiers who defended the city fled too, running or riding north. Havor sent the Hussars to ride them down in the flat fields beyond the edge of the meagre walls. The battle for Sava was over in mere hours. When the fires had dwindled, late in the afternoon, Havor gave the order to ride into the city and take it. There was no great charge to victory, but a sombre procession of soldiers as they rode through the charred streets of Sava.

  Mar rode beside his commanders. His eye cast about, looking for any signs of life. He found few. Stray dogs followed along the column of dragoons. Crows and vultures wheeled about in the sky, seeking carrion. A handful of elderly survivors milled about with blank stares. An old woman wailed, head in her hands, as the soldiers passed. Only those too old to flee remained. Somehow, a few had survived the fires. He knew from the smell of the fires, the smoky aroma of charred meat, that many had not. Bands of riders were sent out, seeking to scavenge supplies. They found little. The incendiary shells of the artillery had done their work perhaps too well.

  “We will camp across the river on higher ground,” Havor said as they rode past one of the great stone temples that still stood unburned, “Baine says he knows a spot where...”

  As he spoke, a commotion interrupted the colonel. A soldier of the 13th ran from the temple, yelling curses and holding his arm. He was a young man and a private. He had the look of a new recruit. His face had gone white. The temple beside the road was stone and carved with hundreds of small sculptures and reliefs depicting wild images of men and women coupling with or slaying beasts.

  “Get a hold of yourself, man,” Dryden snapped.

  Sergeant Steele jumped from his horse and grabbed the soldier. “What’s the matter with you?" he began to bellow.

  “I’ve been bit, sirs!” The boy cried suddenly, falling to his knees and holding up his arm. Blood streamed down it.

  Connall Baine, the Old Salgair, had been riding behind. He dismounted and strode over to the young soldier. He knelt and took hold of the arm. “A snake?” he asked.

  “Yes, sir. A snake.”

  “Do you know the kind?” He asked.

  The boy shook his head.

  “Colour?”

  “Black.”

  “A dark grey, or truly black?” He asked, “Any other markings?”

  “T’was black as midnight!” He wailed.

  Baine stood, turned to Havor, and shook his head, “If it's like he says, he hasn’t more than a couple of hours left.” The old hunter said grimly.

  The young man held his arm, “It burns, sir!” He cried, clutching at the arm.

  “Have you ever known a man to live from this kind of snake bite?” Havor asked.

  “Only once,” the hunter replied, “And I imagine he regretted it.”

  “Mar, Sergeant Steele, with me,” Dryden said, dismounting his horse.

  “Sir?” Steele asked, but went to obey without hesitation.

  “I mean to revenge myself upon the serpent that did this,” Dryden answered, “I will not let it take more lives.” He began to stride confidently up the steps of the temple.

  Baine stood and went to follow, “Careful, Major. There are many deadly snakes in this land, but the tenebrous krait is no viper to fool with, eh?”

  “Stay with the private… What’s your name, lad?” Dryden asked.

  “B-B-Ben.” He stammered, then realised they weren’t asking what to call him, “Benjamin Taff. First Squadron, under Longview.”

  “I remember you,” Dryden said, “I recruited you in Marrowick not yet half a year ago, did I not?”

  “You did, sir,” The man replied, beginning to shiver. His face was going white, “It has been an honour, sir.” The young man stammered out, his breath shallow.

  Stolen from its original source, this story is not meant to be on Amazon; report any sightings.

  “The honour was mine, private,” Dryden said, then he turned and strode up the steps to the temple, his gloved hand on the hilt of his sword, “Come, Mar, let us see to this snake that has killed one of our men.”

  “John, do not linger long,” Havor said, “There is much to be done and little time.”

  “I do not intend to tarry here. A little vengeance is all I seek, Colonel,” Dryden replied.

  “Very well. Careful with the snake, I would hate to lose a friend…” Havor let the words die, then he spurred his black horse and rode off down the lane, men of the 13th trailing behind him.

  Dryden turned back and started climbing the steps again.

  “There is still a chance he will live, John,” Mar said, following the Major up the steps.

  Dryden said nothing but continued to climb. Hope was a vanity that a soldier could not afford. Then they were at the top, beside the dark entrance to the temple. Mar took the aethium cigarette he had rolled earlier and put it to his lips, but did not light it yet. It was best to take the catalyst just before it was needed. Steele walked beside him, dark eyes scanning for danger. The dark doorway to the temple yawned wide, carved with images of rapturous and carnal couplings. They stepped inside. His eye adjusted to the dimness of the temple. The structure had appeared large on the outside; inside, it was even more cavernous. Deeper within, the sound of dripping water echoed. Sergeant Steele pulled his standard-issue cavalry sabre from his scabbard. It was a dull-looking thing compared to the swords of officers. Dryden kept his hand on the hilt of his Styranian blade. The major had become hesitant to draw his sword since Vurun. Mar cast his eye about the room, looking for a snake. Two rows of pillars ran deeper into the temple. Dozens of vibrantly painted statues were set into the room's outer walls. Had there been any light in the temple, it would have been brilliant to see, but it was dim and the colours were muted by shadow. At the far wall stood a large statue of a woman, twelve feet tall, with six arms, in a pose somewhere between dancing and fighting, breasts bared, with the head of a cobra. Blood was painted running down her chin. One arm of the statue held a great bloody sword, and in the other, a lotus flower. Something hissed at the foot of the statue.

  “There,” Dryden said, pointing to a snake that slithered in the shadows.

  Something else hissed. Steele pointed at another snake. Now that his eye had adjusted to the dimness, Mar could faintly make out a dozen such snakes coiled on the stone floor, all near the base of the large statue at the far end of the room.

  “Great gods below,” Mar hissed reflexively under his breath. He had never feared snakes, but the prospect of many deadly venomous snakes before him sent a chill down his spine.

  The body of a second dead trooper lay ahead. Dryden stepped towards the man, but a cobra rose up above the body, as if protecting it. Dryden froze, stepped back from the body and the snake, and pointed at a dark shape which began to move. The form revealed itself as a woman reclining below the altar of the great goddess statue. She was watching them. Her eyes glittered in the dim light of the temple’s interior. She sat up, staring fixedly at the men. She looked almost black in the gloom, and long, wavy hair cascaded down her shoulders. She crouched and stared at them, her eyes boring into them.

  Mar took a box of matches from his pocket, struck one, and pressed the flame to the cigarette between his lips. The small flame broke the murk of the temple for just a moment. He shivered in anticipation of the first inhalation. It had been weeks since he had last imbibed the aethium, when he had brought down the dragon and destroyed the bridge at Bogat. He savored the smoke as he sucked in. He felt the world become more focused, and bliss travelled down his limbs and through his whole body.

  “Who are you?” Dryden asked.

  “You think she’ll speak Vastrum, sir?” Steele asked, “Should have brought Baine.”

  “I expect we will require him to translate for us. Go and fetch him, Sergeant,” Dryden began, but before the sergeant could turn to leave, the woman replied perfectly in the Vastrum tongue.

  “Why do all you pale men of the west seek to have what is forbidden to them?”

  Dryden ignored the question, “These snakes have killed my men.”

  “And so you come to kill them in return? Is that how you respond to death, with more killing?”

  “A man must defend himself.”

  “Indeed. Is a snake not extended the same courtesy?”

  “You cannot stop me.”

  “True. Perhaps I can dissuade you.”

  “How?”

  “Is it not revenge you seek, rather than security? The men are already dead. If you seek to protect others, would you not instead ride on and forget this place? Vengeance will only lead to a cycle of killing that will never end.”

  “What kind of leader would I be if I did not seek justice for the deaths of my men?” Dryden shot.

  “Does not the same logic apply to your enemies? How many innocents did you kill today in taking this city? Are my snakes not an avatar of justice for Sava? How is it that you are justified in all your wickedness, while others are villains for defending themselves?”

  “We all do what we must,” Dryden answered, his tone hard.

  “That is true,” The woman said. Her eyes glinted gold.

  “She is a sorceress,” Mar hissed at Dryden.

  She laughed, “I will not harm you if you leave. Were it my choice, I would have swept you from the field before you reached the city. My goddess demands sacrifice of those who serve. It will be my eternal shame that I sat here while Sava burned.”

  “Who are you?” Dryden’s tone was weary.

  “I have already told you more than I owe. Leave or die. Go back to the West. Go back to your dying lands and fallen gods. Everything you people touch withers and turns to ash.”

  “I tire of this. Your words writhe like your serpents,” Dryden spat his reply, “Speak simply and answer.”

  “Pray that my words only writhe and do not also bite. You come into my home seeking to rape, rob, and make demands of me. Leave!” She shouted and stood among her hissing serpents.

  “She has a point, John. We ought to walk on,” Mar whispered.

  John Dryden heaved a sigh. His hand slipped from the hilt of his sword, “Fine, we have more important matters to attend.”

  The three men, Dryden, Steele, and Mar, began to back away towards the door they had come through. They did not take their eyes from the woman, watching her warily as they retreated.

  There was suddenly a sound behind them, footsteps on cobbles. They turned. Baine was there. Slick as grease, he moved, grabbed a viper by the neck that hung low from a statue, and cut its head off with his wicked hunting knife. The snake had been slithering towards Dryden as they spoke with the woman. It had almost been close enough to strike.

  “What is the meaning of this?” Dryden turned to the woman.

  The sorceress was gone. The temple was dark and empty. Aside from the one Baine had killed, no snakes remained. The corpse of the snake he held was jet black, just as Ben had described. Even the body of the trooper had disappeared.

  “You’ve got to watch yourselves, boyos,” Baine frowned.

  “Where did she go?” Dryden demanded.

  “Who?” Baine asked.

  “The woman, she was just there…” Sergeant Steele pointed to the statue.

  “That’s a statue of Ammamaha,” The old hunter replied.

  “No, there was a woman…” Mar agreed, “She spoke to us…” He, too, trailed off in confusion.

  “I appreciate the help, but were you not instructed to stay with the lad who had been bitten?” Dryden frowned.

  “I did. He’s dead. You’ve been gone an hour. Havor told me to find you.”

  “It’s been only minutes,” Dryden replied.

  “No. The regiment has crossed the Padesh and is camped on the other side. We’re only waiting for you to cross so Wolfgang can blow the bridge.”

  “Bloody hell,” Dryden said under his breath, “I tire of gods.” Thunder rolled outside.

  They stepped through the door that led outside. It was nearly evening. Clouds had rolled in, thick, towering thunderheads that looked like anvils. The late afternoon sun lit up the tops in brilliant gold light. Underneath was all darkness, broken only by bolts of lightning.

  “What know you of Ammamaha, Baine?” Dryden asked as they stood upon the steps of the temple overlooking the burned ruins of Sava.

  “A great goddess of the East. Consort of Visahura. Vindictive and wrathful. Prone to moods. She brings the rain that makes the land bountiful. She brings floods that sweep away villages. I suspect she’s about to do the latter,” The Old Salgair gestured to the forming thunderheads.

  “I do not enjoy being toyed with, and I abhor threats,” Dryden said, “Whether they come from men or gods. The sovereignty of the king and his armies shall not be infringed. Not by Rhakan. Not by this… Ammamaha. Mar, bring the temple low.”

  “Sir?” Mar asked. It felt wrong. Would this not bring down the wrath of the goddess further? Mar had felt the hand of deities upon him before. He sought to make himself smaller, to hide from the power. If he could have been invisible to this goddess, he would have done so. Destroying her temple would very much have the opposite effect.

  “Destroy it, Mar. You have already taken your catalyst, have you not?”

  “I have. I recommend against this course of action, sir.”

  “Your concern is noted. Can you not destroy it?”

  “I can try.”

  “Proceed, if you please.”

  “Is that an order or a request?”

  “An order.”

  Mar frowned. He reached back into his memories, searching for something that could destroy such an edifice. The stone temple loomed over him. He thought of the cannons, the mountain falling, the destruction of the bridge at Ghinai, and then again at Bogat. The quake when Vurun was taken—it had shaken all the way down to Kashma, where Mar had been recuperating. He settled on his memory of the destruction of the bridge at Ghinai. There had been a raw power to that blast. The men who had set those charges had not done so skillfully, but used only raw power to achieve it. It seemed the right amount of power to break this stone building.

  “You ought to move away,” He said as the wind whipped his hair.

  He gripped the bliss still flooding his body and held onto it. He took the memory and wrapped the feeling of pleasure around it. The shudder of the blast thumped his chest. The shockwave as it knocked down men and horse alike. The utter surprise of it. The wicked look of Aisa staring back at them from the other side of the Jaxa. The memory writhed in his grasp like a snake. He wrestled it. A strange power fought him. Thunder rolled somewhere in the sky above. He cried out. He heaved with great effort, and tears streamed down his face. With a scream of anger, he forced the fabric of reality to bend to his will. Then a great blast echoed. It threw him back to the dirt. His ears rang. His chest felt as if it would implode, his heartbeat pounded in his ears, and he took ragged breaths. Dust and smoke enveloped him.

  “Mar.” A voice cut through the smoke and the ringing in his ears. Hands grabbed him under his armpits, and he felt himself dragged away.

  Then the smoke was gone, blown away by the breeze, and his vision cleared. Dryden and Sergeant Steele had carried him away. Baine stood somewhere nearby, coughing from the dust and smoke. Mar turned his eye back towards the temple. It was dark and blackened, but it still stood.

  “I failed,” Mar moaned.

  “No,” Dryden said, pointing to it.

  The wind blew more of the dust from it, and it came into focus. A huge crack ran down from the very top of it through the entrance, which was collapsed and impassable. The temple leaned in on itself and threatened to crumble.

  A trooper came running up, leading their horses, “Great gods below!” He exclaimed as he arrived, “What in the bloody hells was that?”

  “Good lad, Tommy,” Steele said as the young soldier handed the reins to them, “Just a bit of excitement.”

  Lightning flashed between the dark storm clouds, and thunder boomed overhead. The first drops of rain hit the dry earth. The clouds were beginning to move in, and soon, Mar knew, the rain would come in sheets, followed by floods.

  “Seems the old bibi is feeling hot over what you did to her temple, boyos,” Connall Baine grinned at Mar, as if he were in on some great joke.

  “I don’t like mucking around with gods, John,” Mar shot at Dryden as Mar found the strength to stand.

  “I can’t abide gods mucking around with us. At some point, you have to punch back, Marten,” Dryden replied hotly.

  “It smacks of hubris, John.”

  Dryden grunted rather than answer.

  Sergeant Steele interrupted before they could continue, which surprised Mar. He was not one to breach the etiquette of rank, “Never mind all that, sirs. We must cross the bridge before the powder gets wet, eh?”

  “True enough, Sergeant,” Dryden said, nodding to the man, “Let us away.”

  They mounted their horses and spurred them across the bridge away from Sava, the ruins of the city and the temple behind them. They were just to a safe distance past the bridge when Wolfgang blew it. The roar of gunpowder drowned out the thunder above, but only briefly. Camp had been set, the first proper one since Bogat. Mar found his tent already erected, collapsed on his bedroll, and slept, utterly exhausted from his sorcery. Outside, the rain came down in sheets, soaking the land, and Mar’s dreams were filled with floods that swept away armies, cities, and all the works and sins of man.