The Rescue of Huyen Tran

  “Three fat Shaivite priests and a long line of unruly Chams,” Tan Po whispered, repeating the words to Huaizong as they crawled over the crest of the sand dunes. They peered down, spying on the three figures of dread: Bhairav the Smouldering, Kapal Ash-Eater, and Ugra Fire-Tongue.

  At the head of the procession were the torchbearers, followed immediately by the priests. Their massive, naked bodies were stained a deep, bruised blue, the pigment settling into the heavy folds of their skin. They were "sky-clad," wearing nothing but thick strings of Rudraksha seeds that clattered like teeth against their chests as they danced. Their bellies shook with every rhythmic step, and their faces were smeared with grey Vibhuti ash, making their eyes look like hollow, dark pits.

  Behind them surged the unruly Chams—a jagged line of warriors smelling of sour wine and sweat, waving rusted blades and guttering torches. They hooted and jeered, their "devotion" more akin to a drunken riot than a holy rite.

  In the midst of this chaos, Princess Huyen sat atop an open palanquin. She was a ghost in silk. Draped in heavy gold and crowned with wilting lotus flowers, her head lolled to the side. The Datura had taken hold; her eyes were wide but saw nothing, her spirit drifting in a drug-induced fog while the priests invoked Agni Kravyada, the flesh-devourer, to claim her.

  Following behind were women and children chanting to Agni—unwilling participants in this ghastly spectacle. Bringing up the rear were the musicians, Shaivites as well, positioned to frighten the women and children forward with a wall of discordant sound.

  Ugra Fire-Tongue raised a silver vessel of oil, his blue arms trembling with dark anticipation. "To the fire!" he bellowed, his voice booming over the frantic drums.

  The procession reached its destination. Zhenjin and his Kheshig were already positioned near the funeral pyre. This was no ordinary pyre; it was a massive construction where the body of Agatub lay waiting for his "bride," the air around it heavy with the scent of fragrant herbs and ghee. The plan was clear: they would place Huyen, strapped to her palanquin, beside the dead man. Boru, Agatub’s eldest son, had been tasked to light the flame.

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  “We must separate the palanquin from the rest of the procession,” Zhenjin commanded softly. “Keep the Chams out of the fighting, and ensure the women and children are safe.”

  “We must cut off the musicians,” Huaizong added. “Those men are armed. Once Boru lights the pyre, the warriors will surround it. We must sever the line between the soldiers and the civilians.”

  “My Khazan,” Adviser Faizi whispered, stepping from the shadows. “Let the wizards attack the center. We will cut off the women, the children, and the musicians.”

  “Thank you, Faizi. That is tactical,” Zhenjin agreed.

  “There is nothing tactical about this,” Faizi countered with a wide, toothy grin. “We will create a distraction. You and your Kheshig must ride your horses right up to the chita. Grab Lady Huyen and carry her back to the palace. The wizards and I will engage the warriors. We will not harm the Cham folk—only the armed. The signal will be the moment Boru ignites the flame.”

  “You seem to be enjoying this,” Zhenjin noted.

  “In this life, humor counts. Tell me, Khazan, do you like music?”

  “Not this particular song,” Zhenjin replied, glancing at the screaming musicians.

  Faizi smiled like the proverbial Cheshire Cat and vanished into the darkness. Zhenjin signaled Zalir and Mahintha to move to the far side of the pyre.

  The cortege finally reached the chita. Huyen’s palanquin was heaved up beside Agatub. With a trembling hand, Boru touched the torch to the ghee-soaked wood at his father’s feet.

  Usually, when a great fire ignites, it sucks in the air with a soft swoosh. This time, it was a thunderous RR blast. A flash of blinding light. A wall of magical smoke erupted, dousing the heat and sending the women and children fleeing in every direction. The warriors ducked, confused by the grey haze, struggling to recover their footing.

  As the smoke bloomed, Zhenjin and his Kheshig charged.

  Zhenjin leaped onto the chita, his blade flashing as he sliced through the leather straps binding Huyen’s hands and feet. He lifted her as if he were a groom carrying his bride over a threshold, his movements fluid and desperate. With a defiant shout, he leaped onto Kharzagal. He slid the drugged, barely conscious princess onto the saddle in front of him and spurred his horse, galloping at full tilt toward the safety of the castle.

  Behind him, his loyal Kheshig formed a wall of steel, cutting down any Cham who dared pursue. They made it to the castle.

  The battle between the wizards and the warriors eventually subsided. But wizards are not merely men of war; they are painters, poets, and players. Once the field was cleared, the wizards picked up the discarded instruments of the Shaivites.

  “I’m a little cricket,” Faizi sang, his voice bright against the dawning sky, accompanied by eight wizards on the captured drums and trumpets ng m. There is a strange, haunting beauty when a melody designed for an eight-note octave is forced through a pentatonic scale—it was different, eerie, and triumphant.