Torn By War: 4 (The Death Wizard Chronicles)

by Melvin, Jim

  “Keeping you waiting was my pleasure,” Torg said, causing more laughter—though none from the queen.

  “I, for one, am not amused,” came a loud voice from up front. A Jivitan officer, resplendent in a short doublet of white silk with a jeweled belt and green hose, faced Torg and Laylah. “When guests are invited to such important events, they should show good manners and arrive promptly. Either that, or mind their own business.”

  This elicited several audible gasps. Deep silence followed.

  Torg responded, his voice low but menacing. “After you’ve lived a thousand years, your definition of promptness will change, General Navarese.”

  Navarese started to protest, but the queen interrupted. “Enough, general! You will all be given opportunities to speak, as is your right, but it must be done in orderly fashion.”

  Navarese sat down in a huff.

  “Come forward, Torgon . . . two seats have been held for you up front,” Queen Rajinii said. “And Sir Elu, return to your post.”

  The Svakaran trotted up the stairs and positioned himself on the queen’s right. On her left stood Manta, the Jivitan necromancer.

  Torg and Laylah approached the base of the staircase, bowed, and sat down in two cushioned chairs. The sorceress was on Torg’s left, and the general sat on her other side. To Torg’s right was a barrel-chested clergyman who looked old enough to be Navarese’s grandfather. Torg had met him before.

  The queen stood. All rose in unison. Then she pounded the tail of her staff on the marble floor three times. “Do all members of this Privy Council swear by the glory of the One God to be true and faithful servants to the queen?”

  “We do,” they spoke in unison, except for Torg and Laylah.

  “The meeting will hereby commence,” Rajinii said.

  Everyone sat.

  “Worthy counselors, the reasons for this unscheduled assemblage are known to all. Yesterday’s arrival of King Torgon was a boon to our cause. He and his companions endured grave perils during their journey to the White City. It would behoove us to take heed of whatever they can tell us of the workings of the enemy.”

  There were several loud “yays” and “hear! hears!”

  Without further prompting, Torg stood and strode to the second step. He bore no weapon—both Obhasa and the Silver Sword had been left with a Tugar outside the door—but he was formidable nonetheless, dressed all in black with blue eyes that smoldered. The room hushed.

  “Thank you, one and all, for the privilege of your company,” he said in a deep, steady voice. “I wish I could proclaim that the news I bear will lighten your hearts, but it will not. In less than a year, I have journeyed more than five hundred leagues. During that time, I stood face to face with Bhayatupa the Great. I was imprisoned by Invictus—and escaped. I took part in the destruction of Duccarita. And I did battle with the druids in the heart of Dhutanga.”

  Torg stopped for a moment to gauge their reactions. The general’s leg was tapping, but the large clergyman sat perfectly still. Most of the others bore worried expressions.

  “Please continue, Torgon,” the queen said. “We await your tale with bated breath.”

  “As you wish. I will start with Invictus and the ruined snow giant we now know as Mala. The army of Avici already has begun its march and will assail Nissaya, I believe, before the onset of the next full moon. I am sure you have heard rumors of the size and strength of the Chain Man’s army, but I have seen it firsthand and believe it to be greater than any army that has ever existed. In numbers alone, it is at least four times larger than your queen’s army.

  “However, this in itself is not the major concern. The majority of Mala’s forces are composed of golden soldiers who appear to be no match for your proud white horsemen. But tens of thousands of monsters also march with Mala. If you met his army with all your strength, I do not believe you would prevail.”

  This was too much for Navarese to bear. He leapt up and stomped over to Torg. “Who are you to decide whether we would win or lose? Do you command the Jivitans? Do you command our God?”

  “General!” the queen said.

  But this time, Navarese dared to override her. “With all due respect, your highness, I demand a response from this intruder.”

  There was a collective gasp, then Torg said, “Only Invictus has the might to demand something from me. You should sit down, before I become angry.”

  The large clergyman snorted, but Rajinii did not appreciate the humor. She stood up and held her staff high. “This is a sacred assembly, blessed by God Almighty,” she said to Torg and Navarese. “There will be no violence within these chambers—though I must say, general, you deserve to be threatened.”

  Navarese’s normally pale cheeks had become as red as one of Bhayatupa’s scales, but he returned to his chair. Torg remained standing on the stair, but the air around him sizzled.

  “If anyone else interrupts before our guest is finished,” Rajinii said, “he or she will be removed from this chamber.”

  The queen returned to the throne. “Torgon, please continue.”

  Torg nodded. “As I was saying, Mala’s army is strong. But my statement, which the general found so offensive, must be clarified. You could not defeat Mala’s army as it now exists, but Jivita will not meet Mala at full strength. The Chain Man first must deal with Nissaya. At the least, there he will be weakened. And then he will have to march another hundred leagues to meet you on the Green Plains. Your true hope lies with how serious of a blow the black knights deal to your enemy.”

  “These are wise words, Torgon, but you have said nothing we haven’t already surmised,” Rajinii countered. “We must learn what you know of the druids. Like Mala, we also will have to defeat a powerful enemy before we encounter the next one.”

  Torg took another step toward the throne and spoke directly to the queen. “I have seen the druids—from the ground and the sky. They are at least twice your number, and the queen who drives them is angrier and more powerful than her predecessor. Plus, they have bred a special form of druid that appears larger and more dangerous than usual. Jivita will be hard-pressed, even if the enemy from Dhutanga is the only one you face.”

  To Torg’s surprise, Laylah raised her hand. All eyes turned to her.

  “Yes?” Rajinii purred.

  The sorceress stood. In her bedroom at the palace she had changed her clothing and now wore a Tugarian warrior outfit: black jacket and breeches. It took Torg’s breath away.

  “I apologize if I have broken protocol by interrupting. But there is something that I believe needs be said before anyone else continues.”

  The large clergyman nodded vigorously, as if clairvoyantly hearing Laylah’s next words.

  “And what might that be, dear?” the queen said.

  “Mala’s army and even the druids are perilous enemies, no doubt,” Laylah said. “But neither is as deadly as my brother.”

  Navarese stood and bowed to the queen. “May I speak now, your highness?”

  Rajinii nodded. Then the general pointed to the clergyman. “It is obvious she has conversed with Bernard.”

  Torg started to intervene, but Laylah waved him off. “Sir! I do not know the name or the man,” she said to Navarese. “What I have to say has nothing to do with schemes or intrigue. Invictus is my brother! And I was his prisoner for more than seventy years. I daresay I know him better than you. Compared to Invictus, your other enemies are trifles. What does it matter if you defeat the druids and then Mala, if my brother strolls in afterward and destroys us all?”

  As if on cue, the clergyman stood. “For the sake of our esteemed guests, allow me to introduce myself. Proud lady,” he said, nodding to Laylah, “and mighty warriors,” he added, gesturing to Torg and Elu, “my name is indeed Bernard . . . Archbishop Bernard . . . and I have been preaching an almost identical warning for more than a year, much to the chagrin of my rivals on the council. Perhaps now my words will be given more credence.”

  “No single bein
g can stand against Jivita,” interrupted the general, his voice crude when compared to the wizened clergyman’s. “I believe even Invictus can be defeated, if we are smart enough and bold enough. I fear one hundred thousand druids far more than a single man. And more so, I fear the dragon. The beast’s name has been mentioned, but we have not yet discussed the danger he represents.”

  “Sir!” Laylah repeated. “I stood within a stone’s throw of the dragon as he was dragged through the streets of Avici. Invictus bested Bhayatupa as easily as a man of your stature could best a boy. Anyone who fears the dragon more than the sorcerer is deluded. In terms of puissance, Invictus is beyond your most dreadful nightmares. If your goal is to ensure the survival of Jivita, then you had better give the bulk of your consideration to how you might defeat the Sun God.”

  “Do you hear her, your highness?” Bernard said to Rajinii. “Have I not said these exact words to you on many occasions?”

  Rajinii rose from her throne and leaned against her staff. Suddenly she looked old and weary. Torg felt sorry for her.

  “I hear her . . . and you,” the queen said to Bernard. “It is not your fear of Invictus that I disdain. Rather, it is your advice on how to counter him.”

  Bernard stepped forward and threw himself at Torg’s feet, in a gesture of calculated drama. “Lord Torgon,” he said breathlessly, “the wisdom behind your bold sacrifice at Dibbu-Loka was not lost on me. You set in motion powers that are beyond us . . . and beyond even the horrendous evil that reigns over Avici. However, I would suggest—without intending any offense to one as courageous as you—that you have not comprehended the full extent of your selflessness. Your brave act will not go unrewarded, but fate or karma or whatever the Tugars choose to call it will have little to do with it. Your reward will come from Ekadeva, the living god! Even Invictus pales in comparison to He Who Is Almighty.”

  Navarese joined Bernard on the stairs, focusing his full attention on Torg.

  “Do you know what he proposes?” the general said. “He wants us to lay down our arms . . . now! . . . and pray. Forget about fighting the druids. Or Mala. Or Invictus. He believes if we pray—and do nothing else—Ekadeva will reach down his hand and sweep aside our enemies. I, for one, will not abide such madness. I am as much of a disciple of Ekadeva as any good citizen of the White City, but I believe that the One God demands more of his servants than cowardice. If I were king, Jivita would not be in peril—from any enemy! I would ride throughout the lands and force all to succumb to the will of God!”

  “And if I were king, peace would reign over the lands, not war,” Bernard said as he rose to his feet. “We are God’s children, not the children of murderers. Besides, Invictus cannot be defeated by force . . . at least by the force of man. Only Ekadeva has the might. And such might he has aplenty. Do you doubt it, general?”

  “I doubt only your sanity.”

  “And I yours.”

  The queen stumbled down the stairs and stood between them.

  “Gentlemen,” Rajinii said, in almost a whisper. “Both of you want what is best for the White City. But am I not still your Sovereign? Listen to my counsel. I offer a third alternative.”

  “Tell us,” Torg said, his voice wary.

  “Death is the alternative . . . death in battle,” Rajinii said, her eyes glowing. “Jivita will fight until none among us lives—and afterward we will reunite in the Kingdom of Heaven. Not even Invictus can stop us from attaining glory, though he tear us limb from limb with his bare hands.”

  Then she stumbled from the chamber—with her aide Manta and Elu skittering behind.

  Navarese watched her leave and then picked up where he had left off. “As we all know, Queen Rajinii’s reign is unchallenged while she lives. But we also know that she is a warrior of high renown who fears no conflict and will insist on leading our charge. This puts her life in peril. If she were to die in the coming battle, Jivita would be without a Sovereign, and since she continues to refuse to appoint a successor, I demand a vote now among the council. It’s obvious the queen is in no mood or condition to play any role in this. Besides, the law is the law. A three-fourth’s majority will determine the outcome, even without the queen’s input.”

  “So in other words,” Torg said, “you think so little of her that you would do such a thing behind her back.”

  “This is not your business, Death-Knower. We don’t need your permission to enact our own laws, which are known by all Jivitans. We don’t tell the Tugars what to do, so extend us the same courtesy.”

  “It will be our business, if you become king, triple your forces, and then make us all ‘succumb to the will of god.’”

  “You and your warriors would be better off for it.”

  “Your opinion.”

  “For once I agree with Navarese,” Bernard interrupted. “Let’s get this over with.”

  Navarese grunted, obviously even more impatient than Bernard. “I call the vote now,” the general said. “Ladies and gentlemen, you have heard our arguments ad nauseam, so there is no need for further debate. But keep in mind that if there is no majority, the next opportunity to decide this issue won’t occur until the wars are over. By then, the queen might already be dead. Would you have us be without a Sovereign at such a crucial period in our history? I think not. But enough talk. I vote for myself and Bernard for Bernard, so it starts out one-to-one. Please commence.”

  “Not so fast,” the archbishop said. “I have had a change of heart and do not vote for myself. Instead, I choose Lord Torgon.”

  There were several gasps, including an especially startled one from Laylah.

  “This is insanity,” Navarese shouted, his eyes bulging. “Only a pure-blooded Jivitan can be bestowed the honor of being her successor.”

  “The law states only that it be a person of royal blood. Nowhere does it say Jivitan royal blood.”

  “We are speaking of the Jivitan charter! You’re playing with words, Bernard, and you know it.”

  “Nonetheless . . .”

  A woman stood, tall and beautiful. “I cast my vote for The Torgon.” Then she sat down quickly.

  “Lady Margaret . . .” Navarese said, his voice puzzled.

  “Two-to-one,” Bernard said a moment later.

  Torg watched with interest as a short but muscular man stood next. He bore a scar on his cheek that obviously had been the work of a blade. “Navarese,” he said.

  “That’s a surprise,” Bernard snorted. “Two-to-two.”

  After that, there was a long silence in which no one said a thing.

  “Counselors!” the general finally shouted. “Do you wish for your next king to be a Tugar? Where is your loyalty?”

  An especially pale woman with dark circles under her eyes stood timidly and said, “Navarese.”

  “Thank you!” the general said. “Three-to-two. Now it’s time for the rest of you to represent the White City like true Jivitans. Let’s end this charade quickly so that our fate will be in proper hands.”

  The most elderly of the gathering, other than Torg, stood next. Torg knew him well—Baron Kentigern, the richest man in Jivita and perhaps the world, except for Invictus. But Torg had always found Kentigern to be open-minded, and he was one of the few Jivitans who had never attempted to lecture him about the One God.

  “I vote for Lord Torgon,” the baron said. “I am a loyal Jivitan, and I do love our people, but none of us are the wizard’s equal.”

  “Three-to-three!” Bernard bellowed.

  “Old man,” Navarese snapped at the baron. “Your vast holdings would be worthless if my army did not protect them.”

  “Good one, general,” Bernard said. “If you keep talking like that, The Torgon will win with ease.”

  Two more men stood, both dressed as clergymen, and cast their votes for Torg.

  “Five-to-three!” Bernard said to Navarese. “You cannot prevail!”

  “These proceedings are a sham,” the general said.

  The final four w
ho had not yet voted looked about nervously. Navarese walked over to an older man who bore a stern expression. Torg recognized him as the high justice of Jivita.

  “Eadwig,” the general said, his voice now pleading. “I cannot win, but cast your vote for me so that at least a Tugar will not become our king.”

  The high justice stood. “I abstain.”

  Navarese sighed. “It is over. The Torgon cannot earn the required number of votes.” Then the general rushed out of the room.

  WHEN NAVARESE WAS gone, Eadwig strode over to the archbishop. “What was that about, your grace?” he said with obvious irritation.

  “He needed to be taught a lesson, my lord,” Bernard said. “With humbling comes wisdom.”

  “He is young and brash, but his genius cannot be denied. He remains our greatest hope in the wars to come.”

  “No, Eadwig, he does not. Ekadeva is our greatest hope . . . our only hope.”

  “We’ve been through this before, Bernard. Faith is one thing, foolishness another.”

  Finally Laylah had caught her breath. Almost everything she had witnessed since entering the Throne Room had confused her. While the remaining eleven members of the Privy Council gathered in a tight circle and continued their noisy debate, Laylah joined Torg on the stairs.

  “Torg, what happened this time?”

  The wizard chuckled, but there was little pleasure in it. “Apparently, the general was ‘cut down to size,’ as my Vasi master used to say. And I was the weapon used to do the cutting.”

  “I don’t understand.”

  “Despite Bernard’s fervor, I doubt he truly would have Jivita lay down its arms. Of all the people I have known, only Sister Tathagata would support such extremes. But it appears that the archbishop and his allies feared that Navarese was becoming too confident. After this, the general will move more slowly and with more respect for those who disagree with some of his viewpoints.”