Temple of a Thousand Faces (54 page)

Boran turned to make sure Vibol was right behind him and then stumbled. A Cham axe whipped toward him, and he barely had time to raise his shield and duck. The weapon hit his shield at an angle, sliding harmlessly away. Even as he regained his balance, Boran thrust his spear forward. Its tip plunged into the Cham’s thigh and the man screamed, dropping his axe.

The enemy seemed to be everywhere, and Boran shouted at Vibol to run toward the boats. Several arrows hissed from Cham archers in front of him, thudding into a large Khmer who was covered in the blood of his foes. Knowing that the archers were a mortal threat to his son, Boran charged ahead, holding his shield in front of his torso, feeling an arrow strike the thick timber. Two archers scattered as he approached—dropping their bows and running for the water. Though Boran had always considered himself to be strong, he had never felt such strength as he did now. The thought of Vibol’s possible death filled him with fury, and he screamed at the remaining Chams in front of him, drawing their attention away from his son. A naked Cham picked up a comrade’s fallen sword and barred Boran’s path. The man was well muscled, yet Boran felt no fear, only an overwhelming need to protect his child. He blocked the Cham’s thrust with his shield, felt the other’s weapon become lodged in the wood, and used the shaft of his spear to beat the man down.

The boats weren’t far away, and Boran once again shouted at Vibol to hurry. Fifty paces ahead, a dock teemed with struggling Chams and Khmers. Boran joined the fray, using his shield to knock Chams from the dock and into the water. The hilt of a
sword struck him hard in the right shoulder and his arm went numb. He thought he would be overrun, but instead the Khmers around him rallied, forcing the Chams away. Suddenly the dock was theirs.

Boran dragged Vibol to the nearest boat, jumped over its gunwale, and landed awkwardly. Pain shot up his leg, but he turned, protecting Vibol with his shield as a Cham spear flew in their direction. A band of experienced Khmer fighters killed the few Chams on board. Boran’s chest heaved and he found it hard to breathe, his right arm still nearly useless. Yet he used the edge of his shield to pull Vibol closer to him. To his surprise, he realized that the tip of Vibol’s spear was slick with blood.

Risking a glance toward the shore, he saw that the banners of Angkor Wat were moving forward and that the enemy was being cut down. The Chams had been surprised, and though many fought with courage and determination, they were surrounded and overwhelmed. Some fled for the lake or jungle but were intercepted and struck from behind. Others dropped their weapons and pleaded for mercy but were quickly dispatched. The wounded and the ill wept and wailed but were unheeded. They died in vast numbers.

Suddenly Vibol leaned over the side of the boat and retched. Boran put his good arm around his son, holding him tight, inspecting him for injuries. Seeing none, he silently offered his gratitude to the Gods. He continued to pray as Vibol heaved and sagged, dropping his spear.

Khmers and Siamese began to shout in triumph. Thousands of voices blended into a single torrent of howling sound. This cry, Boran thought, might have been heard by the Gods, because it seemed to echo off the jungle, the water, and even his very flesh. Men around him raised their weapons, and the world seemed to split asunder from the strength of their voices.

Boran kissed the back of Vibol’s damp head, still holding him. He looked to the north, wondering where Soriya and Prak were. The vanguard of the army was supposed to arrive after the fighting had quieted, but he didn’t see a single woman or child.

“Where are they?” he whispered.

Near the shoreline, the few remaining wounded Chams were speared with appalling efficiency. Boran turned Vibol from the spectacle, directing his gaze toward the open water. Aware that fighting still lay ahead, Boran tried to focus on the undulating surface, tried to imagine what fish might be swimming within sight. Such questions had occupied his mind for all his life, yet now seemed pathetically insignificant.

One son was alive. But his other loved ones were beyond the reach of his senses, and this separation tore at him with as much wickedness as any blade. He didn’t want to be here, on a Cham boat holding up one dazed child while the rest of his family wondered if they were alive or dead.

Khmer and Siamese officers started to organize the army, putting groups of men onto the Cham boats while assigning others to guard the perimeter of the camp. Several dozen Khmer
mahouts
scrambled atop captured war elephants and rode them into the jungle. Boran didn’t know what would happen next but felt that his day was just beginning.

Vibol finally looked up, his eyes bloodshot, his face covered in dust and streaked with tears. Still trembling, he started to speak but then noticed the red welt on his father’s shoulder. “Are you hurt?” he asked, his voice barely audible.

“A branch slapped me on our run.”

Vibol’s eyes filled with tears. “I wish it were over. I wish all the fighting were finished.”

“As do I.”

“How much more will there be?”

“Plenty,” Boran replied, wanting to be truthful. “Angkor is still full of Chams. The Great Lake is full of them. All we’ve done is stir up a hornet’s nest.”

“Oh.”

An officer on the shore gestured for the father and son to come to him. Vibol closed his eyes, then picked up his spear and started to step over the gunwale. Boran reached for his elbow. “Wait.”

“What?”

“You came here…longing to be a man. But I want to tell you that killing a man won’t make you one. What will make you a man is taking the more difficult path. And that’s the path we’ve chosen. That path led us to this moment.”

“I already…killed a man. And I don’t feel any stronger.”

“You’re not. So don’t kill to prove yourself. Kill to stay alive, if you must. But not to prove your worth.”

“I won’t.”

“You proved yourself years ago to me on the water. Each and every day you proved yourself. How I enjoyed having you beside me. How I loved those days.”

“So did I,” Vibol replied, tears once again dropping to his cheeks.

Boran embraced his son, holding him tight. He then watched Vibol climb onto the dock. He followed in his footsteps, moving gingerly because of the pain in his ankle and shoulder. Now that the rush of battle had ended, he felt so very tired and old.

A
half morning’s row into the Great Lake, Indravarman and Po Rame stood near the end of a long Cham boat. The vessel was far different from the barges that had carried the Cham army into Angkor. This craft, with an upturned bow and a single mainsail,
was thirty paces long and six paces wide. Its two sides were lined with oarsmen, while its interior bristled with thirty of Indravarman’s best warriors. At the rear of the craft, the captain guided a steering pole that was connected to the rudder. Standing next to him, an older man chanted rhythmically, the oars moving to the sound of his voice.

Many of the men stood and sweated beneath the sun, but Indravarman was seated on a dais padded with silk cushions. Po Rame knelt next to him. Both men were shaded by an elaborate canopy supported by bamboo poles. The edges of the canopy rippled as the boat surged forward, powered by the wind and the oars. The bow of the vessel was carved into a rooster’s head, complete with a thick beak and tufts of feathers.

In all, Indravarman’s boat carried more than seventy men. About a hundred and fifty vessels of various sizes sailed with him, moving a force of eleven thousand warriors. He had left two thousand fighters back in Angkor to keep the Khmers in line, but the bulk of his army accompanied him. Another three thousand Chams were approaching his position from the south, having sailed an indirect route from their homeland.

Po Rame’s spies had predicted that Jayavar would march with about seven thousand men, meaning that once Indravarman met his reinforcements, he would have a two-to-one advantage in numbers. The prospect of such a confrontation caused the Cham king’s breathing to quicken. He gazed to the south, searching for his countrymen. Though the sky was free of clouds, a slight haze hung over the water, making it difficult to see for long distances. He knew that the approaching force was near, as swift scout boats had rushed ahead and brought word of the main group’s progress.

Indravarman wasn’t certain if Jayavar had already attacked the base at the lake, but he suspected that he had. It was wise of the Khmer to try to stage a series of smaller battles rather than
one large one. If Po Rame’s spy was correct, Jayavar would have assaulted and certainly defeated the Chams by the lake. He should be on the water by now, rowing hard to meet his enemy. Pretending to be Chams, Jayavar’s men might surprise and overwhelm the approaching group of warriors. But if Indravarman warned his countrymen about the treachery, they could simply let Jayavar near them, then combine their forces to surround and annihilate him. The war would be over.

Turning to Po Rame, Indravarman unconsciously rubbed the iron under his skin. “When Jayavar realizes that he’s trapped, he shall come straight for me,” he said. “Slaying me is the only way he can win the day.”

“Let the dung eater come, Lord King. Our men will swarm over him like flies on a corpse.”

Indravarman grunted. “Both he and I know that if one of us were to fall, the other would win. If he manages to fight his way to me, he shall die on my sword. But if you wish, you may stalk him from the rear. Wound him for me and I shall reward you with his soul.”

“Thank you, Lord King. A king’s soul…even a false king’s soul…would be a priceless gift.”

“And what of my soul, Po Rame? Shall you take it someday?”

“Forgive—”

“If I fall, you’ll be nothing. Remember that.” Indravarman nodded to himself, thinking that after this battle he would kill Po Rame and feed him to the fish. Perhaps he would look into the assassin’s eyes as he died and try to take the power that purportedly had already been stolen.

“You’re my master, King of Kings. You’ll see that today, when I cripple your enemies.”

Indravarman twisted around, peering to the south. “Will Asal come?”

“Most likely.”

“He shall come because he’s a fighter. He now fights for love, as that passion deceives him. But in his heart of hearts he’s a warrior. He knows that he’ll never be safe while we live, and so he shall face us.”

“Then my blade will find his back.”

“Be careful, Po Rame. I’ve known men who have fought for love, and they’re a difficult breed to kill. Such passion may cloud their minds, but it gives them great strength. Cripple him swiftly or you shall die on his blade.”

Po Rame nodded, then moved away from the sun and deeper into the shade.

“When this day is over,” Indravarman continued, “the Khmer Empire will be finished. We shall return to Angkor, gather more of our forces, slay the city’s leaders for their part in this uprising, and populate the land with our people. The Khmers’ history, their achievements, their glories, all shall become ours.”

“They will—”

“So sharpen your blade, assassin. Put Jayavar down on this deck, and you shall be immortal. Put Asal down as well, and you’ll steal the passion of which I speak.”

“Yes, King of Kings.”

“Now go. Leave me to my thoughts.”

Po Rame turned away, but Indravarman barely noticed his departure.

The Cham king stood up. His hand on the shaft of his battle-axe, he soon paced the deck, impatient for the killing to begin.

B
ack at the former Cham stronghold, Jayavar stood on the shoreline, facing Bona. The boy carried a small shield and a dagger that he had sheathed like a sword. His face bore a pained
expression that prompted Jayavar to crouch down so that they were eye to eye.

“My lord, I want to fight,” Bona said, his right hand on the hilt of his dagger.

Jayavar smiled. “I know. And fight you would. I’ve seen your strength, how you can pull back the heavy cord of a bow.”

“I can.”

“The next time you lift that bow, we’ll be hunting together. We’ll head deep into the jungle and disappear until the stars are out.”

“When can we do that?”

“Soon, my child. But for now I need you to do something else for me. Your mother? Is she near?”

“Yes, my lord.”

“Please go to her. She will need you.”

“But, my lord, you’ll need me more. I want to serve you.”

Jayavar put his right hand on Bona’s shoulder. “Your father is dead, Bona. My children are dead. That makes us more than a servant and a lord. We are to be companions, you and I. After the Chams are defeated, I would like you and your mother to move into the Royal Palace. You may continue your work as the swordsmith’s apprentice, or as whatever else suits you. Your mother may work as she wishes. And when my duties tire me, I shall seek you out. Then we shall hunt, stack stones in a quiet place, or discuss the day.”

Bona scratched a burn near his wrist, shifting from side to side. “My lord, the Chams will try to kill you.”

Nodding, Jayavar removed a golden ring from his finger and handed it to Bona. “If the Chams are victorious, flee into the jungle with your mother. Return to your homeland. The gold you now carry will offer you a start.”

“Thank you, my lord. But please…please, don’t lose. I’d rather stay with you.”

“I know. And though I would like to stay here and continue our talk, I must go. Time grows precious.” Jayavar rose to his full height, then squeezed both of Bona’s shoulders. “I shall see you soon. Until then, stay safe, my young companion.”

“You too, my lord.”

Jayavar turned away from the boy. Ajadevi stood in the distance. Now he needed to be with her.

A
jadevi watched him approach, noting how he walked, how his posture was even more upright than normal. She also stood near the shoreline. Around her, scores of enemy boats, docked and anchored, were now manned by Khmers and Siamese. Yet many of these warriors held enemy shields and axes; they wore the short-sleeved, quilted armor favored by Chams, as well as some of their lotus-flower headdresses. From a distance, the Khmers looked like Chams. Hidden throughout the vessels were archers, the tips of their arrows wrapped in cloth and dipped in pitch. When the time was right, the sky would rain down burning bolts, setting Indravarman’s fleet ablaze.