Temple of a Thousand Faces (32 page)

Boran looked toward the warriors, knowing she was right and frustrated by his own shortcomings. “What would you have me do? You speak as if I’ve countless paths to choose from and am going the wrong way. Which way should I go, Soriya? He wants to fight and he’s being taught how to do so. Maybe that will save him. Maybe it will save me. I’ve asked myself, day after day, the very same questions that you’re asking me. It’s not like I’m on the river, setting nets. I don’t know what to do.”

“I’m sorry. It’s just that—”

An urgent call came from the lead warrior. Boran froze. Suddenly the men doubled back on the trail, moving like the wind through the trees. Vibol was leading Prak, holding his hand, running ahead of their companions. Boran spun Soriya around and followed her as she ran after the warriors, his heart threatening to burst from his chest.

Prak tripped on a root and fell to his knees, prompting Soriya to cry out and reach for him. Vibol helped his brother up, while Boran pulled the Cham war axe from his son’s hands. He stood, facing the north, awaiting whoever shared the trail. But then
Soriya tugged on his arm, and once again they were running, dodging and ducking foliage, struggling to stay on their feet.

To Boran’s surprise, the warriors led them to a banyan tree and urged them to climb. Boran started to argue but then nodded and helped his loved ones maneuver their way up through a web of intersecting branches. They climbed until the ground was far below and they had a partially clear view of their surroundings.

“Why don’t we run?” Boran whispered, his chest heaving.

The leader of the warriors, who had a long scar on his face and a broken nose, leaned closer to Boran. “Because I wish to see.”

“To see us die?”

“They aren’t Chams, fisherman, but Siamese. So let’s watch them come and go.”

Boran shook his head, wondering why Siamese wouldn’t butcher them just as readily as Chams. He started to ask as much but was silenced by a glare from the warrior. Helpless, he looked from Soriya to Prak to Vibol, nodding to each of them, trying to encourage them when he felt as if he were an eel trapped in his own net.

Several black birds rose in the distance. Boran sought to slow his breathing, his right hand still around the shaft of the axe. He thought he saw the glint of steel. A horse neighed. A foreign scent drifted to him. Peering through the branches and leaves below him, he attempted to make sense of what was happening.

Between gaps in the foliage, the army appeared. Though they were an arrow’s flight away, Boran could see immediately why the Khmer warrior had recognized them as Siamese. The newcomers, who walked briskly, wore hip cloths and tunics made of brightly colored fabric. Elaborate patterns graced the garments. Atop the men’s heads were pyramid-shaped collections of beads, shells, and feathers. Unlike the Khmers and Chams, who usually carried
small circular shields, the Siamese held rectangular shields that protected them from neck to knee. Almost all the warriors wielded steel-tipped spears. White feathers were attached to the middle and top of the spears. Overall, the Siamese warriors formed a tapestry of sorts, an array of colors and patterns the likes of which Boran had never seen. Though the temples of Angkor were unrivaled in size and splendor, most Khmers wore simple clothes and only a few jewels or rings. The Siamese, it seemed, decorated themselves as much as possible.

Boran watched the army pass. He tried counting the warriors but quickly grew overwhelmed by the task. Hundreds and hundreds of Siamese must have been present. The clink of shield against shield, the shuffling of innumerable feet, were plain to hear. Several Siamese appeared to look up at the banyan tree, but no one bothered to come closer. The warriors marched with haste, moving faster than Boran would have thought possible. Their spears and heavy shields didn’t seem to slow them down as they moved into and out of sight.

When the army was finally gone, Boran turned to the scar-faced Khmer. “Why are they here?” he asked.

The man smiled. “There is a rumor,” he replied. “A rumor that King Jayavar has sent for Siamese mercenaries, that he has asked them to march to the Citadel of Women, as we do. And if that rumor is true…maybe the Gods are once again pleased with us. Maybe we can hope.”

Boran saw Soriya nod at the warrior’s words, as if she also believed that the sight of the Siamese portended a better tomorrow.

But Boran wasn’t sure. So many men and weapons could only result in a great many deaths. And how he could protect his family from such destruction remained a riddle.

When the Khmer warrior told everyone to climb down the
tree, Boran was tempted to ask his loved ones to stay. Yet he found himself moving with the others, dropping from limb to limb, approaching a fate he feared.

A
sal urged his horse toward the front of the column. Two scouts he had sent ahead of the main force should have returned by now. He’d worked with the men before and always found them reliable. Their tardiness unnerved him.

The jungle was as dense as any Asal had ever experienced. Thickets of bamboo dominated the immediate landscape, though they were dwarfed by much taller teak, ficus, and banyan trees. Even in the dry season, moss grew on seemingly every stone, trunk, or fallen branch. Slanting rays of sunlight penetrated gaps in the dense canopy, illuminating patches of the jungle floor.

Though the men around him marched along the trail without pause or concern, Asal’s disquiet increased with each passing moment. Something wasn’t right. His horse seemed skittish, the jungle creatures too quiet. Fifty paces ahead of him, fifteen of his countrymen used swords to hack at the undergrowth. Stalks of bamboo shuddered and fell. Ferns were yanked from the ground.

Asal had informed Indravarman of the missing scouts, but the king had not shared Asal’s concern. All reports indicated that the Khmers were massing farther to the north, near the old temple. Yet Asal felt as if he was walking into a trap.

Pulling back on his reins, he halted his horse and called for the men to ready themselves for battle. They looked at him in confusion, and he repeated his order, unsheathing his sword. He peered ahead, trying to understand what his senses were telling him.

He had started to turn his horse around to confer with Indravarman when the jungle erupted with war cries. The green foliage
parted, revealing screaming men who carried spears and large shields and were dressed in colorful hip cloths and tunics. The Chams had a few heartbeats to draw their weapons and brace themselves. Asal realized that he wasn’t about to be attacked by Khmers, but by Siamese.

Whoever commanded the attacking force had planned the ambush site well. In the confines of the narrow trail, the Cham horses panicked. Several bolted into the undergrowth, tossing their riders. Even as he realized that they were outnumbered and doomed, Asal shouted at the men around him to hold their positions.

Then the Siamese struck.

S
everal hundred paces toward the rear of the column, Voisanne heard the screams and the hiss of arrows, and she remembered Asal’s words. Yelling at Thida to follow her lead, she tumbled out of the padded cart and crawled beneath it. The clash of steel against steel rang out, as did the shouts of Chams, Siamese, and Khmers. Hearing the cries of her countrymen, Voisanne was tempted to crawl from beneath the cart and seek help. But as soon as she moved, men began to fall, clutching at mortal wounds, screaming for aid that did not arrive. Thida shrieked beside her, covering her ears, her eyes wild with fright. The roar of the battle increased. Voisanne moved toward the middle of the cart and was able to see only the feet and calves of nearby men.

A warrior dressed in a bright red tunic fell, writhing with a spear in his belly. Seeing his agony, Voisanne thought of Asal. She called out to him, though her voice was overwhelmed by the clamor of battle.

The cart shuddered. A horse toppled, its hooves striking a wooden wheel. Smoke filled the air and soon Voisanne felt the
heat of flames. She shouted at Thida that they had to leave. When the other woman only curled into a ball and shut her eyes, Voisanne tried to drag her out from under the cart. But Thida wouldn’t move. Voisanne squeezed her friend’s hand, then left her, suddenly desperate to run.

Outside the cart, the chaos of battle was overwhelming. She saw packs of Chams fighting against Siamese and a few Khmers. Two of Indravarman’s men stood in front of her, and when they fell, Siamese darted forward, eager to plunder and pillage.

Voisanne ran, frantic to escape the blood-splattered warriors who seemed to see her and only her. She rushed away from the trail, crashing through undergrowth. Fallen logs and thorny bushes slowed her progress, but she paid such obstacles no heed, ignoring the slashes on her legs and feet. She ran around two immense anthills, fell, and then dashed into a thicket of bamboo. A dozen paces behind her, a man shouted in a strange tongue, and she didn’t need to turn around to know that he was Siamese. Understanding that she was his prey, she ran as never before.

Yet he ran faster, and slammed the butt of his spear into the small of her back. She cried out, falling into a clump of ferns, bracing for his attack even before he was upon her.

W
hen his line of men buckled, then collapsed, Asal fled along with everyone else. Only he didn’t dart into the jungle but back toward where he thought Voisanne would be. Aware of how the Siamese would treat her, he ran and fought like a fiend, plowing into and over his enemies, giving little thought to his own well-being. He quickly came to what remained of Indravarman’s personal guard, took a sword strike on his shield, killed the Siamese warrior, and then dragged Thida from beneath a burning cart.

“Where is she?” he shouted, his voice nearly lost amid the cries of the fighting and dying.

Thida made no reply but glanced toward a thicket of bamboo. Asal left her, twisting away from a thrown spear. A woman’s shriek rang out. Asal jumped over a crippled horse and ran toward the thicket, battering saplings aside with his shield as he held his sword high.

A Siamese was tugging at Voisanne’s skirt cloth when Asal burst into the thicket. The warrior looked up, then grunted as Asal’s foot struck him hard in the side. He rolled off Voisanne, reached for his discarded spear, and stared in disbelief when Asal’s weapon cut through his arm, severing it from the spear. The Siamese shrieked. He gazed at his bloody stump, then died when Asal reversed his sword strike, bringing the blade up from the dirt and blood, cutting deeply into his enemy’s neck.

Hearing cries from other Siamese, Asal dropped his shield. Voisanne was trying to stand but trembled uncontrollably. “Can you run?” he asked.

She threw her arms around him, and for a moment he wanted to stay there, holding her, comforting her. But the Siamese were shouting triumphantly, so he pulled away from her, cut slits down the front and back of her skirt cloth, took her hand, and led her deeper into the thicket. At first she stumbled and wept, but as they ran together, knocking aside everything in their path, he felt strength flow back into her. She moved with purpose, letting him lead her but not slowing his progress. Pride for her swelled within him, and he increased their speed, knowing that she could keep up.

A
t the scene of the attack, the rear guard of the Cham force had regrouped and driven the Siamese back, away from the burning carts and the dead. Indravarman, flanked by his personal guards,
fought like a wild beast, his great strength making his sword fast and deadly. Veteran Siamese warriors seemed to offer him no more resistance than children. Enraged by their ambush, he cut them down one by one, pressing into the jungle. Though his officers tried to halt his counterattack out of concern for his safety, he led his men forward, coated in his enemies’ blood. He knew that even with the success of his strike, his army had been crippled. Hundreds of his men were dead or injured, and he would have to withdraw back to Angkor and regroup. Jayavar would live to see another day.

After he beheaded a Siamese with a sweeping sword stroke, Indravarman realized that Asal had been right. The disappearance of the scouts should have prompted caution. His enemies were running away, and the king turned, looking for Asal, knowing he had been at the front of the column where the worst fighting had taken place.

Are you dead? Indravarman wondered. Did the Siamese take your life before I could?

The Chams who still stood shouted in triumph, though Indravarman realized that in most ways he had been beaten. Cursing the dead Siamese, stepping on their bodies, he made his way back to the burning carts. He saw Thida sobbing against the base of a tree. Po Rame was already interrogating a wounded enemy warrior. Most of Indravarman’s other officers were present. But where was Asal? If he had died, where did his body lie? If he lived, where had he gone?

W
ithin their encampment to the north, Jayavar and Ajadevi sat atop a hill that overlooked their valley. Though the dense foliage obscured much, occasional breaks within the trees allowed glimpses into the base camp. Horses ate from thatch baskets,
children played, warriors trained, supplies were unpacked by weary porters, and the river glistened. From so far above, the Khmers were almost unheard, though the clang of metal on metal occasionally rang out, as did trumpeting from their few war elephants.

Jayavar’s gaze swung around the encampment’s perimeter as he studied the outposts of their sentries. It would be impossible for a Cham army to approach undetected. The Khmer warriors would be forewarned of any attack, and would have ample time to prepare their defenses. Women, children, and the elderly would be sent to caves alongside the river while the men formed lines on top of nearby hills. The Chams would have to fight while climbing up the hills or wading in the river—difficult tasks considering that Khmer archers would fill the sky with arrows.

Still, despite the advantages of the terrain, Jayavar had no wish to engage the enemy here; instead he would take the battle to his foe. The Chams must be driven from Angkor, crushed so completely that they would never return. Repelling an attack in the valley would not accomplish that. Only by retaking Angkor, by celebrating victory within its confines, would they reclaim their kingdom.