Temple of a Thousand Faces (60 page)

Though Jayavar had prayed for strength, it seemed that if divine intervention had taken place then surely the power had been given to Asal, for he fought with extraordinary fury and skill. He screamed a battle cry, his sword a blur, his shield battering men aside. The stout Cham was struck twice before his face even registered shock, and as the dying warrior hit the deck, Asal engaged his next foe, pressing forward like a storm assailing a forest of old trees. The trees split and shattered, swayed and fell. Asal dodged
them as they toppled, shouting Indravarman’s name, once again fighting toward him, the dead and dying in his wake.

Jayavar offered a prayer of gratitude for Asal’s delivery. He then tried to reenter the melee, but a line of his own men moved to separate him from the combatants. Swords clanged, smoke drifted, and arrows whistled. Yet Jayavar had eyes only for Asal, because the Cham continued to fight as if he were not one man but five, scattering his enemies, barely pausing when a spear thudded into his battered shield.

The Khmer king pushed his men aside and fought forward to reach his new ally, longing to help him. But in his haste to reach Asal, Jayavar didn’t notice the tall Cham with the trident held aloft. The trident was bloody, and held high, pointing at Asal’s back.

Jayavar finally spotted the threat. He started to cry out a warning, but something hammered into his side, knocking the breath from his lungs. He gasped, managed to kill his attacker, but his voice was gone.

The threat went unchallenged.

W
hen Asal had first seen Indravarman, all reason had left him. His sole thought was of revenge, not for his own torture, but for the threat against Voisanne. He had fought in a way that he hadn’t known was possible, his sword and shield vicious predators that seemed to act on their own volition. Men faced him and died. Others leapt from the boat rather than endure the steel in his hand. Though he had always been a fierce fighter, on this day his fury had made him much more lethal.

Once again Indravarman met him near the center of the boat. The Cham king held a shield in his left hand and the massive war axe in his right. The shield was barely marred, while both sides of
the axe were bloodied. Indravarman cursed Asal, boasted that he would have his woman, and then attacked, swinging his axe in a blow that would have felled a horse. Asal blocked the strike, but his shield splintered and his arm went numb. Still, he didn’t pause or back away, but chopped down with his sword, surprising Indravarman with his speed and strength. The king managed to knock the blow aside with his own shield. Chams pressed forward to help Indravarman, but Jayavar and a few men engaged them.

Asal threw himself at his larger adversary, his sword striking from unexpected angles, his half-ruined shield managing to keep the big axe at bay. The combatants forced all other men aside. No one wanted to interfere; to engage either man would be to die. Asal and Indravarman fought and raged, both strong and quick, experienced and wise. Not a warrior on either side could have wielded the axe as Indravarman did, for he swung the heavy weapon as if it were a child’s toy. His shield in tatters, Asal tried to avoid the axe rather than cast it aside. He spun on his toes, seeming to dance on the bloody deck, twisting to one side or the other as the steel pursued his flesh.

His breath now ragged, his chest heaving, Asal tried to counterattack, but Indravarman was amazingly quick. The two warriors came together, weapons locking. They strained against each other, their heads and shoulders banging, their sweat and blood mingling.

“You betrayed me,” Indravarman said through clenched teeth.

“Gladly…Lord King.”

“Your whore shall—”

“No!” Asal shouted, thrusting himself forward, smashing his forehead into Indravarman’s nose. Blood sprayed and the king howled in pain, stepping back. Asal disengaged his blade from the axe and stabbed it forward. His lunge missed, but he continued
to press against Indravarman with all of his strength, forcing the king back. Asal struck again and felt his weapon bite into flesh. Indravarman screamed.

Seeing that their king was in mortal danger, other Chams jumped into the fray. Asal countered one sword stroke, heard Jayavar shout a warning, and managed to turn aside Po Rame’s trident with a desperate flick of his shield. One of the trident’s barbs stuck in the wood, gouging Asal’s forearm.

Indravarman regained his balance and smashed the flat of his axe into Asal, who stumbled, his back striking the gunwale. Pinpricks of light danced in his vision. His breath seemed to catch in his throat. He felt himself tipping toward the water.

Po Rame leapt through the air, a dagger in his right hand. Somehow Asal caught his wrist, halting the blow. Yet the assassin’s momentum pushed Asal backward, over the gunwale. Both men twisted head over heels and then struck the water.

Asal clutched Po Rame’s wrist. But he was deep in the brown water, unable to see or think or breathe.

Po Rame smashed his knee into Asal’s belly. Involuntarily, Asal cried out, water entering his lungs. He choked and gagged, thrashing desperately now, the end approaching more quickly than he had imagined.

T
hough distracted by the battle raging around her, Voisanne managed to maintain a nearly constant supply of arrows for the queen. Ajadevi wasn’t a great archer, but she had been pouring a steady barrage of arrows onto a nearby vessel dominated by Chams. The enemy fired back, and arrows thudded into the wood near the two women. When the bolts didn’t bite deeply enough into the deck or hull, Voisanne was able to wrench them free and hand them to Ajadevi, who promptly took aim and fired. Since
she had so many men to target, her strikes often resulted in curses and screams.

Ajadevi seemed fearless of the arrows that whistled past her, but Voisanne was unnerved by the danger. She had insisted that Chaya remain with the children, who crouched behind a wall of shields. Several of the children had already lost mothers or fathers, and Voisanne was proud of Chaya as she tried to comfort the young.

Whenever she ran to retrieve an arrow, Voisanne glanced at the ship that held Asal. She hadn’t seen him yet but couldn’t stop looking for him, even when her queen shouted at her to hurry. Ajadevi was also desperate for news of the fight, as Jayavar was in the thick of it. But if she didn’t keep the nearby boat at bay with her arrows, its men would board their craft and either cut their throats or ravish them. So Voisanne collected arrows, gave updates on the fighting, and tried not to notice her queen’s tears.

Everything changed for Voisanne when she finally glimpsed Asal. She saw his sword rise and fall like a farmer’s hoe as he battled Indravarman. The Cham king reeled backward. A smaller man leapt at Asal, and Voisanne cried out when he and this new foe struggled, then fell into the water and disappeared. Without thought, she jumped overboard, an arrow still in her right hand. She swam with all of her strength, frantic with worry. She imagined Asal in pain, in darkness, and the thought of his terror propelled her on, past the limits of her own exhaustion. Though pieces of smoldering wood bobbed on the surface, she kept pushing her way ahead, calling out his name between breaths of air.

She neared the boat. The water in front of her was thrust up as a stranger’s head appeared. He gasped for air, then went under again. Voisanne kicked as hard as she could, opening her eyes underwater. Though everything was dim, she saw a flash of steel.
Asal’s face appeared next, his mouth open, his teeth bared. She could see more clearly now and realized that the two men were fighting over a knife. Asal was beneath his adversary, pinned deep. Voisanne swam toward the back of the slighter Cham. She neared him, unseen. Holding the shaft of the arrow, she thrust it forward with all of her strength. The steel-tipped point bit deeply into the flesh beneath his right shoulder blade and she heard a muffled shriek. The knife twisted in her direction, but she didn’t defend herself from it, continuing to push harder on the arrow, to thrust it deeper into her enemy. Asal lunged for the knife, turning it away from her, changing its direction and plunging it into the man’s side. He screamed as the water turned red. He tried to fight, but Asal was stronger, and the blade struck again and again. The Cham shuddered and shrieked, bubbles escaping his mouth. His eyes widened; his movements stilled. He convulsed one last time, then seemed to turn into a statue, sinking down, his pained features frozen and unchanging.

Voisanne pulled Asal after her, kicking hard toward the surface. They broke through, into the light. He coughed, gagged, and was finally able to draw air into his lungs.

She held his face in her hands, told him that he was finished fighting, that he was coming with her. He didn’t resist, and she pulled him away from the madness, toward a place where the swells seemed to shimmer.

T
hough Soriya was no warrior, she could see that the battle was reaching its climax. It seemed that men on both sides fought with renewed fury. Boats collided and capsized, men struggled against one another in the water, and war cries were exchanged. She prayed for the safety of Boran and Vibol, and then saw an arrow slicing through the air, heading directly toward Prak. Instinctively
she leaned in front of him and grunted as the arrow slammed into her chest. The pain was ferocious, but she opened her eyes, worried that Prak had also been struck. Yet he hadn’t. His skin was unmarred. His face bore no pain.

She slipped to her knees, grunting.

“Mother!” he cried out, dropping down beside her.

A burning agony tore through her, as if someone had poured hot oil down her throat. She wanted to run from the pain, to find a place of shelter, but each breath added to her misery.

“No,” Prak muttered, his hands following the arrow to her chest. “No, Mother. It can’t be. Please, no.”

She heard the terror in his voice, which pulled her from her pain and into his. “It’s…nothing.”

“It’s not nothing! You’ve been hurt! I can feel your blood!”

“My blood…your blood.”

“What are you talking about? What are you saying?”

“You’re…my son. My beautiful boy.”

“Stop!”

She tried to control her thoughts, her words, but struggled to breathe. A haze seemed to envelop her. She glimpsed the sun, then his face. “It…hardly hurts,” she lied.

He ripped up a piece of cloth and pressed it near where the arrow emerged from her chest, trying to stop the bleeding. “What should I do?” he asked, desperation in his every word. “Tell me what to do!”

“Just…hold me. As I held you.”

His mouth moved, but for once she didn’t focus on his voice. She knew that her time was short. Whatever she said next would have to matter, would have to last, because he would carry her words for the rest of his days.

And so she thought as the sights grew dim around her. She thought about what to say.

*    *    *

J
ayavar had shouted out to Asal in the moment before the tall Cham had attacked. Though his warning had saved Asal from the initial strike, it hadn’t come soon enough to keep him from being forced overboard. Jayavar had wanted to rush to his aid, but Indravarman was badly wounded, his thigh gushing blood. The Cham king would never be more vulnerable than he was at that moment.

Raising his sword, Jayavar rushed forward, desperate to attack Indravarman before his men regrouped around him. The Khmer’s blade whipped down but was cast aside at the last instant by the shaft of Indravarman’s axe. Yet Jayavar had the advantage of surprise, and he reversed his sweep, bringing his sword back, dragging it along Indravarman’s side. His blade sliced through the king’s quilted armor and bit deeply into his flesh. Indravarman roared in pain. He swung wildly with his axe, trying to decapitate Jayavar, but the Khmer king ducked beneath the blow, attacking again, aware that the fate of his kingdom rested on this moment. He brought the hilt of his sword up, striking the underside of Indravarman’s chin. Again the blow was not fatal, but blood flowed, and Indravarman stumbled backward, trying to protect himself, to flee from the Khmer’s sword.

On another day, against another man, Jayavar might have asked his adversary to lay down his weapon and surrender. But not on this day, not against this man. He pressed ahead, swinging and striking. The axe fell from Indravarman’s fingers. With one last, frantic motion, the Cham king smashed his shield into Jayavar’s chest. The blow sent Jayavar stumbling backward, but even so, he brought his sword down with all of his strength and focus, its end biting deeply into Indravarman’s shoulder.

The Cham fell to the deck, weaponless and defenseless. For a
moment it seemed that his men would rush forward to protect him, but the remaining Khmers beat them back with a sudden burst of fury. Sensing the inevitable loss of their king, several Chams, rather than fight to the death, leapt off the side of the boat. Those remaining regrouped and tried to battle toward their king, but Jayavar shouted at his warriors to keep them back. Men fought, screamed, and died. Aware of their looming victory, the Khmers attacked with vast strength and resolve, driving the Chams away. A space cleared around the two kings. For the moment, their confrontation was uninterrupted.

Jayavar stepped toward Indravarman, his sword leveled. “You’re no man,” he said, his chest heaving. “You put my children to death. And that makes you less than human, less than an animal—a mere thing to be stepped on in the jungle.”

Indravarman spat out blood. “Yet I took what was yours…and made it mine.”

“Like a common thief.”

“I’m a king!” Indravarman roared, trying to get up.

Surprised by his enemy’s sudden defiance, Jayavar leaned forward, the tip of his sword pressing against Indravarman’s neck. “Even now, your men desert you,” he replied, motioning toward Chams who were jumping off the boat and swimming away. “Men don’t desert true kings.”

“You’re weak, Jayavar. You shall always be weak.”

Jayavar shook his head. “I shall make war on no kingdom that doesn’t make war on me. Perhaps that makes me weak. But I care not. My people will be free. Your reign here will be remembered as nothing more than a speck of dust against an infinite sky.”