Chapter 2: The Captured Rakshas

In which Timir meets a magic he can't cross.

May 11, 2026

Ahala, watching, withdrew behind the shop’s curtains as the Aramban jadukar spoke a ball of blue smoke and glowing golden fire into existence before him. The stranger, who he had called rakshas, placed a hand on the sword’s grip and let it rest there as he waited for the soldiers to close in, their spears pointed at his heart.

In a flash, the stranger turned and proved the wizard right. He was a rakshas! Or at least a man close enough to one in strength. Tightening his fingers around the greatsword’s grip, he swung it once in a half circle, knocking the spears away, then hefted it with both hands and stood snarling at his hunters.

The spearmen looked at each other before charging, but before they got close enough to strike, Timir swung the blade downwards and with the strength of both his arms, drove it into the pavement upon which the shop stood. With a quarter of it under, the sword still stood half as tall as any of the attacking Arambans. He placed a palm on the skull-shaped pommel and pushed off, launching himself into the air above them. He had landed in front of the still chanting jadukar before they had realised he was behind them. He had rammed his fist into the jadukar’s stomach, knocking the wind out of him before they turned. Unfortunately, as he realised when they tackled him to the ground, he had been a moment too late to stop the chant.

The small sun was already growing.

The jadukar, his right hand clutching his gut, cast the small sun he had created, over his head, where it shone with a brightness that rivalled that of the real sun. He then touched the cobbled ground before him and caused a great wall of stone to rise between him and Timir. The shadow it cast quickly grew darker even than nights had right to be. Though the shadow did not even span the length of the quay, Timir found himself in a consuming darkness that confounded his eyes, ears, and even his thoughts. He swung his arms around and hit nothing, for the Arambans had skittered away and were keeping their distance. One of them lunged forward and stabbed his side, another clocked him on the head with the hilt of his shortsword.

Timir blinked, as if seeing double, and mustered a burst of strength to charge them. He flailed around, seeking Ugr, but it was on the other side of the spearmen. The jadukar beyond the wall was hidden from him. When he sought the edge of the shadow so he could go around and end the man in purple, Timir found it shifting — the coward must have moved his made sun to keep the false night upon him. Its darkness fed on him mercilessly until his every muscle ached and he had no thought left.

When Timir opened his eyes, blinking to understand where it hurt, he found himself in a cage that was rocking like the horse-drawn cart it was on. Though the wound in his side was already healing, there was blood on his new shirt, this time his own. He groaned, and swore loudly that he would only fight naked from now on.

“Is it true then?” he heard the girl’s voice and looked around, blinking. She was walking alongside the cart. “Are you a rakshas?”

“No,” he said, rubbing his eyes to see her better. “Why do you ask?”

“That’s what the jadukar called you,” Ahala said. “After he knocked you out and they put you in this cage, they told everyone there that you were a monster and you had killed many innocents.”

“And why did you not believe them?” Timir asked and was amused to see her blush. But she recovered quickly enough.

“They are Aramban occupiers for one thing. And you didn’t strike me as a rakshas.”

“It is true that I have killed many,” Timir admitted. “But I am only a man,” Timir said. “They call me rakshas because I serve Koru.”

“Koru?”

“He is a god.”

Ahala was lost in thought for a while. Then she asked, “Are you a priest then?”

“If only,” Timir said, leaning closer. “Priests are better at resisting temptation.”

“And you aren’t?” Ahala asked.

“Me? I fall for everything. Foul magics, pretty girls, you name it.”

“What about your god? Does he like what you like?”

“He is a man of simple tastes. He just wants to go west. He likes anything that helps him go west. He kills anything that tries to stop him from going west.”

“What’s in the west?”

“Fuck knows,” Timir said and fell silent. For a while, the only sounds were those of the cart creaking and the occasional passerby yelling at the Arambans to leave Sueila and never come back.

A soldier came by to check on Timir and was somewhat disappointed to find him sleeping peacefully. He prodded him awake and threw taunts at him, “Wondering where your sword is rakshas?”

“Not really,” Timir replied, his arm over his eyes. “You threw it in the sea.”

“Good guess,” replied the soldier.

“I am not guessing,” Timir said and let his captor stare at him in confusion. He was about to get another prod for his trouble when the cart stopped. From the corner of his eye, Timir saw the jadukar get down, still a little winded from the fist to his gut, and walk into the constabulary.

From inside, Timir heard them speaking in Hodi. It grew louder soon, and then there was shouting. “What are they talking about?” he asked.

Ahala, who was also listening, said, “The jadukar wants to have you executed here in Sueila this very evening. The constable refuses. He doesn’t want the trouble of exciting a rebellion in Sueila.”

“Why would my execution excite the rebels?”

“I think he considers you part of the Sueilan resistence. The jadukar is telling him you were sentenced to death in Aramba. The constable is saying he is most welcome to take you back to Aramba.”

“This is priceless,” Timir said, chuckling.

“You find this amusing?” Ahala asked. “They are deciding where to kill you.”

“If only killing me was as simple a matter as deciding where,” Timir said.