Shards of the Gods

Chapter 5: Officer Dharsa

Reksa did not answer right away.

He stood at the foot of the colossal gate, his palm still pressed against the cold stone, as Wiratma’s words swirled in his head like a whirlpool. I was the one who opened the gate for you.

"So you let a killer in," he said at last. His voice was flatter than he intended. "And that killer wore the exact same cloth that I was once wrapped in."

I did not know if he was a killer. Wiratma sounded weary. I only remember a figure in black cloth, the gate I opened, and after that... darkness. I don’t remember what happened next.

Because you died, Sarnika interjected.

Because many of us died, Wiratma shot back sharply. But I don’t remember who stabbed us, Sarnika. Neither do you. You only remember his face.

That face is enough.

"My face," Reksa said softly. "The exact same face as mine."

No one disputed it. That was what hurt the most.

He pulled his hand back from the stone and stared at the three points of light on the gate doors, now extinguished, empty as gougedout eyes. The three shards felt fused inside him, adding to a burden already far too heavy. He remembered Bagas’s calm face in front of their hut's door. I have looked after you for seventeen years. Did the old man know? Was all his kindness all this time just a way to keep watch over something dangerous?

Wiratma seemed to catch his drift. Those three shards did not belong to another god, he said quietly. They are pieces of my own body. I have only just reclaimed a part of myself. I remember the names of the Gates: East, West, North, South, and four others whose locations I never knew. And I remember one more thing.

"What?"

I was not the strongest among the Guardians. But I was the one who believed most that the Gates must always be open to those who need them. He let out a soft, bitter laugh. Perhaps that is why I was chosen to be fooled.

Reksa did not know what to say. For the first time, he felt sorry for the nagging voice in his head.

"I have to go back," he said at last. "Bagas..."

Ting.

Reksa froze.

Ting. Ting.

The sound was clear, coming from the ridge behind him, and sounded incredibly casual. Unhurried, unhurried, like someone who knew exactly where they were stepping.

He found us, Wiratma whispered. Even though you are wearing that lead cloak.

That bell isn't looking for you, Sarnika said, her tone anxious for the first time. It follows the gate. Once Wiratma's three shards awoke, the entire valley lit up.

Reksa turned.

At the crest of the ridge, the silhouettes of ten riders stood in a row, their skeletal horses snorting softly. In their midst, a tall figure in a grey cloak dismounted, then walked down the slope alone, unhurried.

A bronze bell swung in his hand. With every swing, every chime, the black fog around the gate trembled.

Reksa swallowed hard. The shadows of the Gate that had been kneeling earlier now stood, their spears of mist raised toward the stranger.

"Officer Dharsa," Reksa said.

The man stopped ten paces from him. His face was gaunt, with eyes as pale as glass and a thin smile that did not reach his eyes. His black hair was neatly tied back, and a shard the size of an areca nut clung to his chest like a brooch, pulsing a deep red.

"You know my name." His voice was soft, almost friendly. "Good. That saves us some time."

"The entire Carrion Lands knows your name," Reksa said. "People use it to scare children who won't go to sleep."

"And are you afraid?"

Reksa stared into those glasspale eyes for a long moment. "I am," he admitted honestly. "But that doesn't dictate what I do."

Dharsa chuckled, genuinely amused. "A fine sentiment. Bagas would be proud."

"Where is Bagas?"

"Safe. Safe enough for an old man who refuses to answer my questions." Dharsa appraised Reksa from head to toe, his gaze like a merchant evaluating goods. "You are younger than I imagined. Seventeen years of searching, and all I find is a scavenger."

"If you dare hurt him..."

"I do not damage useful assets." Dharsa tilted his head. "The old man kept something for you, you know? For seventeen years, he hid something in a place I couldn't find. I want to know where. And I figured the boy he raised would know."

"I don't know anything."

"Perhaps." His smile widened. "But your body might know more than you do." He casually raised his left hand. "These children of yours are fascinating, by the way."

The fog around the gate hissed. The shadows hesitated, their spears wavering, as if two conflicting commands were clashing within them.

The shard on his chest, Wiratma whispered urgently. He is controlling them with it. It is a shard of the West Gate—not mine, but similar enough to confuse them.

"Now," Dharsa said softly, "we can speak like civilized people, or..."

He snapped his fingers.

Chains of deep red light erupted from the shard on his chest, slithering like serpents toward Reksa. Reksa lunged to the left, but Sarnika screamed in his head.

He is not attacking! The chains are meant to bind!

Too late. Two chains wrapped around his ankles, one coiled around his waist, and his body was dragged crashing to the ground. The pain was not from physical wounds, but a warmth draining out of his body, like water siphoned from a vessel.

And amidst the pain, a flash of memory struck unbidden.

Two large hands pressing against a shuddering door. Screams in the background, many voices calling out a name he didn't catch. Golden light cracking from within, and someone, whoever it was, crying out, Close it, hurry, close it before they see...

The flash vanished as quickly as it had come, leaving a ringing in his ears.

"Your shards," Dharsa said, almost muttering to himself. "I will take them all. And when I'm done, we'll see what remains of the child of the caldera."

Reksa clawed at the dirt. His right hand stretched out, his golden veins glowing, and he remembered Wiratma’s words. Touch the ground. Picture it standing.

But his strength was draining too fast.

Reksa, Wiratma called out, his voice sounding incredibly distant. Don’t fight the chains. Listen to the gate.

"The gate?"

He called you 'The Closer'. The gates do not take titles lightly. Command it.

Reksa did not understand, but there was no other choice. He pressed his free palm to the ground, closed his eyes, and spoke—not with his mouth, but with his entire body.

Close.

The world shook.

The ground beneath Dharsa’s feet split in a long fissure, and from the crack rose a colossal stone wall—not chesthigh like the Guardian's Footprint earlier, but three stories tall. The wall moved on its own, splitting the valley in two, separating Reksa from Dharsa in an instant. The deep red chains shattered with the sound of breaking glass.

Dharsa leaped backward, his eyes widening. For the first time, the smile vanished from his face.

From behind the wall, Reksa coughed and pulled himself up, his body trembling. The massive door behind him shifted slightly, and from the narrow gap, three golden lights flared, far brighter than before, as if the gate had only just awakened.

You have no idea what you just did, Wiratma said, panting like someone who had just run a long distance. But you did it.

Footsteps sounded from behind the wall. Slow. Calm. Dharsa walked around the stone barrier, and when he reappeared, his grey cloak was dusty, but his smile had returned.

"Interesting," he said. "Most interesting."

He stared at the gate, then at Reksa, and then at the black cloth peeking out from beneath the lead cloak on Reksa’s shoulder.

His gaze locked onto it.

"That," Dharsa said softly, his tone shifting. "That cloth."

By reflex, Reksa reached for his shoulder.

"I know who owns that." The pale eyes did not blink. "I recognized that fractured circle pattern long before you were born, boy. And if you are carrying it... you are far more dangerous than the Duchy realizes."

He took a step back, then another, like a man suddenly realizing the game was far larger than he had anticipated. The fog around the gate began to stir again, the shadowy spears tensing.

"Go, then," Dharsa said at last. "You still have time. Bagas will be brought to Rakta’s central square in three days, and the entire city will watch. If you want to save him, you know where to come."

"Three days?" Reksa gripped the dirt. "You said seven..."

"Plans change." Dharsa smiled faintly, then turned to walk back up the slope. "You changed them. Congratulations, Closer."

He vanished over the ridge with his ten riders, the chiming of his bell slowly fading away.

Reksa fell to his knees. The stone wall slowly crumbled into dust, leaving behind a silent valley and the three points of light on the gate pulsing softly.

No one spoke for a long time.

He used that title, Wiratma said at last, barely audible. Dharsa. He knows about 'The Closer'.

Which means he knows far more than we thought, Sarnika muttered.

Reksa stared at the black cloth in his hand, the fractured circle pattern now feeling heavier than any shard.

"Who actually owned this cloth?" he whispered.

No one answered.

The wind began to blow through the valley again, carrying the smell of scorched stone and dust. Reksa forced himself to his feet. He had no time to grieve over things he did not yet understand. Three days. The journey to Rakta from here would take five days by normal roads.

There is another way, Wiratma said, as if reading his mind. This gate is not merely a door. It can deliver you to another gate, if you know how to ask. The distance is far shorter.

"Why didn't you say so earlier?"

Because I only remembered it five minutes ago.

Reksa almost laughed. He wiped his dusty face, then stared at the two massive doors, pulsing softly as if waiting.

Sarnika, he thought, hesitating. Are you coming?

Of course I'm coming, the cold voice replied sharply. I have no choice. But if you open the wrong gate and we get lost somewhere we shouldn't be, I will make sure you regret it.

That, for some reason, sounded like support.

And deep in his head, in a place he did not yet recognize, something else—something ancient—opened its eyes for the very first time.