World_of_Darkness_Immortals.pdf

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tm

BY

DAIRE ELLIOTT-FILOMENA HILL-MATTHEW MCFARLAND-

JOHN SNEAD

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Price of Compassion

On

t h e

great mountaintops,

the air braved only by geese, how could

anyone expect the enemy to come? Ajatashatru had

warded the gates, set guardians both mystical and

technological on the winding paths, prepared the sin-

gle bridge, designed the temple to repel invaders, laid

traps, and scattered the winking red eyes of wireless

cameras across courtyards and down cramped hall-

ways. When the enemy came, they came from the star-

scattered sky.

They weren’t ghosts or daemons — no matter how

frightened the children were — but men, creatures of

flesh and blood and the world. They dropped out of

the darkness above the high mortarless walls, passing

the prayer flags — and their mystical wards — with-

out leaving a trace or setting off alarms. So,

Ajatashatru might suspect vampires, or

magicians. When they hit the ground

it was with Kalashnikovs

and tear gas;

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the weapons of flesh and blood. A dozen attackers,

Ajatashatru thought, with charms and wards, bullets

and high-tech oxygen tanks to allow them a stealthy

drop through the thin atmosphere of highland Tibet.

He’d spent decades building the defenses of Anga Laishan

Temple and it had taken six hours to tear them down.

But most of the children still lived.

“Ajat,” Bija whined. “I’m cold.” Behind her the other

children’s voices rose in echo, as if all they’d needed

was a spark to set off complaints about the cold and

tired and when could they go to sleep.

“I know,” Ajatashatru said patiently, wind whipping

away his cloudy breath, “But we have to go on,” he

stopped to pick Bija up; she was one of the young-

est. She wrapped her arms around him, cold hands

tucking against his neck. Ajatashatru only sighed

and slogged on.

“We have to

keep moving,” he

repeated and turned

to look over the ragged

little line of children and two sur-

viving nuns, “there’s no going back.”

Behind them, as the sun rose, smoke drifted into the

sky like a prayer for the abandoned dead and ahead

of them was the bitter snowfield of Gwanwi Mountain.

There was no road, nor path, nor any sign of safety in

sight, but Ajatashatru knew the way, like he knew the

shape of his own face. He sought an abandoned nunnery,

last mentioned two-hundred years ago. He knew this for

he had been the one to bury the last nuns there, to lock

those old wooden gates and extinguish the last prayer

candles while the mountain mourned around them.

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It

remained

only in his memory

for those two centuries, in

the back of his mind, in case he needed it. It was near

the border of his world, where the bones of the

mountain fell away into lowlands and Ajatashatru’s

territory ended.

He had not thought to take a dozen young chil-

dren and two injured women there; and all of them

mortal. Ajatashatru looked back again, seeing the

way Sister Gua listed to one side, while young Laum

tugged her carefully along. The other children

struggled through the deep snow, older carrying

younger and all trudging along, and heads down

to protect their eyes from the rising brilliance of

the snowfield. One of those weary, frightened chil-

dren, Ajatashatru knew — hoped — was the

Chosen; the Blue Bodhisattva reborn.

If only he knew which one.

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