The Oath of the Vayuputras
Page 101

This woman is talented.
Swuth stopped circling his sword and held it in a traditional sword-fighter stance. He stepped forward, swinging viciously from the right. Sati bent low to avoid the blow and thrust her blade at Swuth’s arm, causing a superficial cut. But Swuth suddenly reversed the direction of his blade, slashing hard across Sati’s shoulder.
Sati swerved back just in time, reducing the threat of what could have been a devastating blow. Swuth’s sword grazed her right arm and shoulder. Sati growled in fury and stabbed with such rapid force that a surprised Swuth had to jump back.
Swuth stepped back even further. This woman was a very skilled warrior. His standard tactics would not work. He decided to keep his distance, pointing his sword forward, thinking of what could be a good move against her. Sati remained stationary, conserving her strength. She couldn’t afford to move too much for fear of increasing the blood loss from her numerous wounds. Also, she was playing for time. She didn’t mind a few moments of reprieve.
An idea struck Swuth. Sati was primarily injured on her left side. This would impair her movements in that direction. He quickly took a giant step forward and swung viciously from his right. Sati twisted to the left and swung her blade up to block Swuth’s strike. The Egyptian could see that the movement had made blood spurt out of her wounded abdomen. As Sati stabbed at Swuth again, she stepped a little to the left to improve her angle. But Swuth had anticipated her move. He stepped further to his right and kept on swinging again and again from that awkward angle.
The intense pain of continuously turning leftwards forced Sati to take a gamble. She pirouetted suddenly and swung her sword in a great arc from her right, hoping to decapitate him. But this was exactly what Swuth had expected. He ducked low and stepped forward rapidly, easily avoiding Sati’s strike. At the same time, he brought his sword up in a low, brutal jab. His curved sword with its serrated edges went right through Sati’s abdomen, ripping almost every single vital organ; her intestines, stomach, kidney and liver were slashed through viciously. A paralysed Sati, her face twisted in agony, lay impaled on Swuth’s curved sword. Her own blade fell from her hand. The Egyptian bent back, used the leverage and rammed his sword in even further, till its point burst through to the other side, piercing her shattered back.
‘Not bad,’ said Swuth, twisting his blade as he pulled it out of Sati, ripping her organs to ribbons. ‘Not bad for a woman.’
Sati collapsed to the ground, her body shivering as dark blood began to pool on the ground around her. She knew she was going to die. It was only a matter of time. The blood flow couldn’t be staunched now. Her vital internal organs and the massive numbers of blood vessels in them had been mortally damaged. But she also knew something else very clearly. She wouldn’t die lying on the ground, slowly bleeding to death.
She would die like a Meluhan. She would die with her head held high.
She lifted her quivering right hand and reached for her sword. Swuth stared at Sati in awe, transfixed as he watched her struggling to reach her blade. He knew that she must know she was going to die soon. And yet, her spirit hadn’t been broken.
Could she be the final kill?
The cult of Aten had a belief that every assassin would one day meet a victim so magnificent, so worthy, that it would be impossible for the man to kill ever again. His duty would then be to give his victim an honourable death and give up his profession to spend the rest of his life worshipping that last victim.
As Sati’s arm flopped to her side after another vain attempt to reach her sword, Swuth shook his head. It can’t be a woman. This cannot be the moment. The final kill cannot be a woman!
Swuth turned around and screamed at his people. ‘Move out, you filthy cockroaches! We’re leaving!’
The man standing next to Swuth didn’t obey his order. He continued to stare beyond Swuth, stupefied by the awe-inspiring sight.
Swuth whirled around, stunned. Sati was up on one knee. She was breathing rapidly, forcing some strength into her debilitated body. She had dug her sword into the ground and her right hand was on its hilt as she tried to use the leverage to push herself up. She failed, took quick breaths, fired more energy into her body, and tried once more. She failed again. Then she stopped suddenly. She felt eyes boring into her. She looked up and locked eyes with Swuth.
Swuth stared at Sati, dumbstruck. She was completely soaked in her own blood, there were cavernous wounds all over her body, and her hands were shivering with the tremendous pain she was in. Her soul must know that death was just minutes away. And yet, her eyes did not exhibit even the slightest hint of fear. She stared directly at Swuth with only one expression. An expression of pure, raw, unadulterated defiance.
Tears sprang into Swuth’s eyes as his heart felt immeasurably heavy. His mind grasped his heart’s message instantly. This indeed was his final kill. He would never, ever, kill again.
Swuth knew what he had to do. He drew both his curved swords, held them high by the hilt and thrust them in a downward motion. In a flash, the swords were buried in the ground. For the last time, he looked at both the half-buried, bloodied swords that had served him so well. He would never use them again. He went down on one knee, pulled his shoulders back to give himself leverage and then slammed the hilts with his palms in an outward motion, snapping both blades in two.
He then got up, pulled back his hood and removed his mask. Sati could see the tattoo of a black fireball with rays streaming out on the bridge of his nose. Swuth reached behind and pulled out a sword from a scabbard tied across his back. Unlike all his other weapons, this sword was marked. It was marked with the name of their God, Aten. Below that had been inscribed the name of the devotee, Swuth. The blade had never been used before. It had but one purpose alone: to taste the blood of the final victim. Thereafter, the sword would never be used again. It would be worshipped by Swuth and his descendants.
Swuth bowed low before Sati, pointed at the black tattoo on the bridge of his nose and repeated an ancient vow.
‘The fire of Aten shall consume you. And the honour of putting out your fire shall purify me.’
Sati didn’t move. She didn’t flinch. She continued to stare silently at Swuth.
Swuth went down on one knee. He had to give Sati an honourable death; beheading her was out of the question. He pointed his sword at her heart, holding the hilt with his thumb facing up. He pressed his other hand into the back of the hilt to provide support.
Ready in every way, Swuth stared back at Sati, at a face that he knew would haunt him for the rest of his life, and whispered, ‘Killing you shall be my life’s honour, My Lady.’
‘NOOOOOOOO!’
A loud scream came wafting in from the distance.
An arrow whizzed past and pierced Swuth’s hand. As his sword dropped to the ground, a surprised Swuth turned to find another arrow flying straight into his shoulder.
‘Run!’ screamed the assassins.
One of them picked up Swuth and started dragging him along.
‘Noooo!’ roared Swuth, struggling against his people, who were bodily carrying him back. Not killing the final victim was one of the greatest sins for the followers of Aten. But his people wouldn’t leave him behind.
Nearly a thousand Meluhans had reached Sati, a desperately distraught Daksha and Veerini in the lead.
‘S-A-T-I-I-I-I-I,’ screamed Daksha, his face twisted in agony.