Torn By War: 4 (The Death Wizard Chronicles)

by Melvin, Jim

  Laylah sighed. “And this is a good thing?”

  “It would seem so.”

  “But the real problem wasn’t resolved. If the queen were to fall, Jivita would be without a leader.”

  “In most ways, the White City runs itself. The queen is a powerful figure, but there is only so much she can do, especially when it comes to the minutiae of commanding such a large population. If Jivita were without a Sovereign for a short period, little harm would come of it, other than the loss of the inspiration she provides.”

  “Which is not what it was,” came a voice from the side. Bernard stood there, wearing a sheepish grin. “I apologize, Lord Torgon, for my behavior here today. It is likely the general will eventually become our king. His support has outgrown mine. But he isn’t ready yet. For his benefit as well as ours, I had to put him in his place. I would have explained my plan to you beforehand, but you were . . . unavailable.”

  “Believe me, Lord Torgon,” came a second voice, this time belonging to the high justice. “I was unaware of any of this. The archbishop took it upon himself to humiliate the general.”

  Lady Margaret and Baron Kentigern joined them. Margaret slapped Torg on the back playfully. “I would love it if you were our king,” Margaret said cheerfully. “I wasn’t pretending, at least.”

  Kentigern chuckled. “Torg is too homely for such an honor.”

  “You should know,” Margaret said.

  Torg and Laylah laughed, but the archbishop grew serious.

  “One disaster has been averted, at least for the time being,” he said in a low voice. “But the larger one remains. Some members of our esteemed council still fear for the queen’s sanity. Lord Torgon, we all know she listens more to you than anyone else. Is there something you can do?”

  Then in an even more serious tone, he added, “Do you have the strength to heal her mind?”

  2

  PEERING THROUGH solid stone was one of the most difficult feats Invictus had ever attempted, causing his eyes to burn and water. The sensation was unfamiliar. Other than the horrendous agony of the solar eclipse, he had felt little discomfort in his entire lifetime. It was a distasteful but interesting experience.

  Invictus was convinced that Bhayatupa again hid somewhere in the peaks of Mahaggata. The dragon wouldn’t be so careless as to return to the deep cavern where Invictus had originally discovered him, but the young king believed that the traitorous beast was somewhere in the snarl of mountains between the gaps. Invictus knew that the dragon would weave a spell at the mouth of his cave that would repel the most powerful of prying eyes. But would he think to put a veil over the stone itself?

  “I’ll bet even you can’t do this, Grandmother,” Invictus had said to himself on the same morning Torg and Laylah ate breakfast at Boulogne’s. “One day, my scrying will surpass even yours.”

  When he first caught sight of the crimson tail, he let out a yelp. Then he examined the tail from the sides, above, and below. But when he tried to search farther down its length toward the body and head, he met with too much resistance. The innate emanations of the dragon’s magic prevented Invictus from seeing more. To make sure he wasn’t imagining things, he ordered his servants to bring him one of the five dracools that had remained in Avici after the departure of Mala’s army.

  A skinny but seemingly fearless female named Iriz entered his chambers in the upper reaches of Uccheda and eagerly peered into his basin of yellow glass.

  “Yes, my liege, that is most definitely the end of a great dragon’s tail,” the dracool rasped. “But there is no guarantee that you are viewing Bhayatupa. Of the remaining dragons in the world, several are crimson. If you could somehow show me his head, I could tell you for certain.”

  Invictus grunted. “If I could see the dragon’s head, then I wouldn’t need you.” Then, more calmly, he said, “I want to see for myself . . . in person. You will take me there.”

  Rather than protest, Iriz seemed pleased by the challenge. “Can you show me the mountaintops above where the dragon sleeps? If so, I can find the lair.”

  Invictus found this request to be an interesting challenge. He leaned over the basin and concentrated. The vision retreated through the stone and launched high into the air. At first, one peak was visible, then several—though all were shrouded in mist.

  “To anyone but a dragon or dracool, the peaks would look the same,” Iriz said boldly. “But I know this place.”

  “Take me there now.”

  “With pleasure, my liege.”

  Despite being able to fly almost as fast as a moutain eagle, it still took Iriz several hours to reach the peak of a remote mountain about forty leagues southwest of Avici. Despite the unseasonable heat, it remained chilly in the upper heights. It didn’t matter. Invictus was incapable of feeling cold.

  Iriz perched outside the entrance of a tunnel that entered the mountain on a steep decline. For the first time, the dracool appeared frightened.

  “Bhayatupa is no match for you, my liege, but if the two of you do battle, I will stand little chance of survival. If it pleases you, I will wait outside until you have concluded your business with Mahaasupanna (mightiest of all dragons).”

  “A wise choice,” Invictus said. “I recommend that you go far away until I’m finished.”

  “Yes, my liege.” Then Iriz sprang into the air and soared upward until she became just a speck in the firmament, even to Invictus’ eyes.

  The passageway was colder and damper than the outside air, its floor as slick as ice. Invictus removed his slippers and left them near the entrance. Then he focused his mind on the soles of his feet, encasing them with magical fire. Each time he took a step, the golden energy sizzled on the stone, incinerating the oily coating and improving his footing. He walked for what seemed like a long time. The tunnel narrowed to the point that he began to doubt a dragon of Bhayatupa’s girth could have managed to slither inside.

  After more than a thousand paces, the passageway finally opened into a large cavern. There were no torches, but the yellow glow emanating from Invictus’ flesh provided sufficient illumination. Within the cavern was a glittering treasure, and lying on the treasure was a great dragon in the throes of deep sleep.

  Instantly, Invictus recognized this wasn’t Bhayatupa. This dragon was a female barely half his size. And from the looks of it, she had been sleeping for many millennia, the rise and fall of her ribcage barely perceptible.

  Throughout his life, Invictus had been prone to temper tantrums. They had begun when he was a toddler on the day he nearly drowned. As he grew older, he’d gained better control, but occasional bouts of anger still overcame him. This was one of those times. He was incensed that he had discovered this female instead of Bhayatupa, causing his body to glow like a miniature sun. The interior of the cavern began to superheat, melting the mounds of gold and silver.

  The dragon sensed the glowing menace from the depths of her sleep and attempted to rouse herself. But awakening from dragon sleep is a slow process, even in the midst of imminent peril. Her scales, though impervious to almost any other form of magic, succumbed to Invictus’ power—and liquefied, along with the treasure. Then her tender flesh caught fire, and she blew apart.

  Invictus’ rage was all-consuming. Nothing could stand against such power: animal, plant, or even stone. The rooftop of the mountain erupted, casting wagon-sized chunks of debris into the sky. Afterward, a heavy wind swept the dust toward Gamana.

  Despite the tumult, Invictus was unscathed.

  When Iriz dared to return, she found Invictus standing barefoot on top of a smoldering boulder, his robes clean and unwrinkled. He held something between the palms of his hands, purposely preventing the dracool from seeing it.

  Then he mounted Iriz back and ordered her to return to Avici . . . although first, there was a detour.

  3

  KUSALA, CHIEFTAIN of the Asēkhas, wasn’t sure why, but he felt relief rather than alarm when Yama-Utu appeared on the upper balcony of Niss
aya’s keep and took King Henepola in his burly arms. The snow giant was mentally disturbed—perhaps beyond recovery—but there was a part of the creature that “grew on you,” as Kusala’s Vasi master liked to say. Without Torg around, Utu was Henepola’s only hope to be cured of the dreaded spells the sorcerer Invictus had cast upon the king.

  Utu remained standing and held the unconscious king like a father cradling an infant son. To Kusala’s surprise, Henepola’s head and neck became enveloped in a swirling green fire that soon engulfed his entire body. Madiraa, daughter of Henepola, began to sob, but whether from sadness or wonder, Kusala could not surmise. Indajaala also appeared amazed, as if in the presence of a being with magic vastly superior to his own.

  For what seemed like a very long time, the king did not move. Then without warning, he arched his back and let out a deafening scream, startling even Kusala. Soon afterward, Henepola’s body went into a series of spasms, making it difficult even for Utu, who was several times larger and many times stronger, to retain his grip. For a moment, Kusala feared that the king would wriggle free and tumble off the balcony to his death. But the snow giant did not relent. Finally Henepola’s body relaxed and lay still again. As if in response, the green glow faded. Now the king appeared to be sleeping within the giant’s embrace.

  Utu bent over and gently passed Henepola to Kusala.

  “I am overly large to squeeze through the portal,” he said in a soft voice. “Return the king to his bed and watch over him until he awakens. If he asks for water or food, give it to him, but in small portions.”

  “Will he live?” Madiraa said, tears still streaking her ebony cheeks.

  “His body is healed, but I cannot speak for his mind,” Utu said with what sounded like compassion. “My abilities are not what they once were.”

  “They are greater than ours, regardless,” Kusala said.

  Then Kusala left the balcony and laid the sleeping king on the soft mattress within his chamber. Madiraa knelt beside the bed and took her father’s hand. For the sake of privacy, Kusala went to the doorway and peered into the hall. Two powerful Asēkhas, Churikā and Podhana, stood there with uttaras drawn, still facing a group of heavily armed sentries and squires. But neither the Asēkhas nor the king’s men seemed interested in fighting one another, and Kusala was relieved to see that there had been no bloodshed.

  “Lower your weapons,” he said to everyone. “We are all friends here. The king has been rescued from peril, but it remains to be seen whether he will survive the ordeal.”

  “Kusala!” Madiraa shouted from her father’s bedside.

  Kusala turned and peered back into the room. “Yes, princess?”

  “Tell the squires to bring a dozen Yādava-samas (rabbis) to the king’s chambers immediately.”

  Kusala started to repeat the order, but several squires had already scrambled off. He was pleased.

  “Return to your duties,” he said to the Asēkhas. “You are no longer needed here.”

  “Ema!” they said in unison and strode down the hall toward the stairs.

  Kusala returned to Madiraa and placed his hand on her shoulder. Indajaala stood timidly nearby. Henepola lay on his back on top of the bedcovers, his dark face peaceful. If not for the slight rise and fall of his chest, he might have been dead. His white hair, tangled and greasy when the chieftain found him sprawled over the basin, now was silky and unsoiled. The snow giant’s magical essence had burned away the grime and left the king scrubbed clean.

  “I will pray for him,” Madiraa said, not taking her eyes off her father’s face. “The snow giant healed the king’s body. The energy of God, born during the creation, will heal his mind.”

  “As you say, my lady.”

  “I love him, Kusala—with all my heart. He can be gruff and rude. But he is a wonderful man and a great king.”

  “I doubt it not. Do not forget that I have known him since his birth. Let us hope that he returns to being the man he was before he dared to use his scrying basin and challenge Invictus to a psychic battle of wills.”

  “Is that what occurred?”

  “Indajaala and I believe it to be so.”

  Madiraa’s head twisted toward the conjurer, the king’s long-time aide. “If not for the kinship I hear in Kusala’s voice, I would have thought you played some role in this evil.”

  “I can testify that he did not,” Kusala said. “Quite the opposite: Indajaala always had your father’s best interests at heart. But he is a friend of the Tugars, as well.”

  “A spy, you mean,” Madiraa said, but Kusala sensed no anger.

  “I have never done anything to compromise the well-being of your father or Nissaya,” Indajaala said. “In fact, I love them both. And you, as well, my princess.”

  “These are strange times,” Madiraa said, “when a man I have long considered an enemy turns out to be a friend.”

  “These are indeed strange times,” Kusala said. “But it is not men such as Indajaala who make them so. Lay the blame at the feet of the one who hails from Avici.”

  Even as they spoke, six men and six women wearing black robes hurried into the room, their heads shaved bald, though the men wore long black beards. After catching their breath, they encouraged Madiraa to stand. Then they joined hands with the princess and recited a prayer of healing.

  Before the completion of the first recitation, Kusala and Indajaala had passed down the narrow hallway to the dark room that contained the scrying basin. Kusala was relieved to find the silvery liquid lying dormant. He’d feared he would see Invictus’ face sneering at him.

  Kusala lifted the clear-crystal basin off its obsidian base, dumped its slippery contents onto the floor, and then slammed the crystal onto an upraised knee, intending to smash it to pieces. But the basin withstood the blow. Kusala grunted, hoisted the basin above his head, and cast it onto the floor. It bounced and struck the wall, but did not crack. Angrier still, Kusala drew his uttara and struck the basin a mighty blow. Though the Tugarian blade was not notched, neither was the crystal damaged.

  “I do not have the strength to destroy this thing,” he said to the conjurer. “Shall I cast it off the balcony? The long fall might destroy it.”

  Indajaala set aside his spike of Maōi. “First let me try the king’s staff. There is great power in it, though Henepola wields it more impressively than I.”

  The conjurer drew the staff from the hole in the floor and positioned its head over the fallen basin. “DhunEti pEpa! (Destroy the Great Evil),” Indajaala cried.

  White fire leapt from the chiseled Maōi, striking the basin with the force of a lightning bolt. But it glanced off its target and ricocheted against the wall and ceiling, forcing Kusala to duck out of the way. Yet the basin remained unblemished.

  “We cannot so much as scratch it,” the conjurer said. “How Henepola managed to craft this hideous thing is beyond my comprehension. Was Invictus in contact with him even before it was made?”

  “I know naught,” Kusala said. “But I will cast it off Nagara, nonetheless.”

  When he stepped back onto the balcony, he was surprised to find Utu still standing in the place they had left him.

  “What have you there?” Utu said.

  “The cause of the king’s illness,” Kusala said.

  “And what will you do with it?”

  “I will destroy it,” Kusala said, gesturing toward the railing.

  “If it lands on someone’s head, the king will be angry with you.”

  Kusala chuckled. “Do you have a better idea?”

  “If you wish it destroyed, it can be done. Give it to me.”

  Kusala started to hand the basin to the snow giant but was surprised to find himself hesitating. The white crystal was so beautiful. Perhaps he could hide it somewhere and then bring it back with him to Anna after the war. It would make a prized souvenir.

  Indajaala joined them on the balcony, the goings-on appearing to puzzle him.

  “Chieftain,” the snow giant said
condescendingly. “This behavior is beneath you. Give it to me.”

  Kusala chuckled. “What behavior? This thing means nothing to me. It’s just that I doubt you can destroy it, any more than we could.”

  “Give him the opportunity,” the conjurer said.

  Was Indajaala sneering at him?

  “What if the snow giant runs off with it?” Kusala argued. “Who knows what damage it could do in his hands? Rather than give it to him, you and I should take it into the bowels of the keep and hide it.”

  “Even from afar, the sorcerer is strong,” Utu said to Indajaala. “The mere hint of his powers consumes our friend. And there is a special kind of Maōi in the basin, as well. It too plays some role.”

  They both were sneering at him.

  “This is mine,” Kusala said. “Stay back!”

  But then a dark hand closed on his shoulder, and he turned to see the wizened face of the king, who was leaning against Madiraa for support.

  “Give it to the snow giant,” Henepola said weakly. “It is the only way.”

  Kusala backed away from them all, pressing the rear of his legs against the low wall of the balcony.

  “Kusala, turn your eyes inward!” the king said, this time with more vigor. “You saw what this thing did to me. Did you not learn a lesson? I thought the Asēkhas prided themselves on their powers of observation. Give it to the snow giant! It is the only way.”

  “Very well . . . I care naught,” Kusala said, though he felt as if he were speaking to them through a wall of mist. He cast it at Utu’s feet. Immediately after leaving his hands, its hold over him vanished, and he stepped away from the balcony wall, his face flushed.

  With surprising nimbleness the snow giant reached down and caught the basin before it smote the balcony floor. Then he examined it. Kusala became convinced that it would seduce the snow giant next. To his surprise, Utu only laughed.