Torn By War: 4 (The Death Wizard Chronicles)

by Melvin, Jim

“Yama-Deva was not defeated by the likes of this.”

  The basin was as wide as Kusala, shoulder to shoulder, but in the snow giant’s hands it appeared about as large as a wide-brimmed hat. Utu held it in front of his chest and squeezed. At first the basin resisted the pressure, but soon after a crack formed on its rim that quickly spread. With an explosive blast, the basin shattered, casting shards in all directions.

  With Madiraa’s help, Henepola stumbled forward and stood before the snow giant. “I have misjudged you,” the king said.

  Utu nodded.

  “I thank you for healing my body,” Henepola said. “I am in your debt.”

  “We all thank you,” Madiraa said.

  “I do not blame you for your distrust,” Utu said. “I am lost. But my quest is not—at least not yet. I still desire to release Yama-Deva from his torment. In the meantime, I will attempt to behave myself—for your good and mine.”

  Then he turned to Kusala, who still felt slightly disoriented. “Do you require healing?”

  Kusala let out a deep breath. “Nothing that a hard slap on the face wouldn’t cure.”

  They all laughed with gusto.

  Even Utu.

  FOR SEVERAL DAYS afterward, Kusala did not feel quite like himself. Finally he told Churikā and the rest of the Asēkhas how the scrying basin had affected him. Rather than offer words of comfort, however, they’d laughed even harder than when the hags had trampled him near Lake Ti-ratana. The more he tried to explain the seriousness of the situation, the more they’d laughed.

  “I’ve been feeling strange every time I pick up my wash basin,” Podhana said, prompting another spate of revelry.

  Kusala gave up and guffawed along with them. Afterward he was his grumpy old self again.

  Four days after Kusala and Utu rescued King Henepola from near death, Kusala was summoned to visit the king. Madiraa and Indajaala, who now appeared to have become close friends, had been providing daily updates on Henepola’s recovery, including occasional visits from Utu on the balcony. But Kusala had stayed away. His relationship with Henepola had never included admittances of weakness on either side. He didn’t want to embarrass the king by visiting him during this period of frailty.

  Madiraa escorted Kusala to the door of the royal chambers. She’d discarded her usual armor for a long black gown. Before the squires granted him admission, the princess hugged him and kissed him on the cheek.

  “If you had not come to Nissaya with the snow giant, all would have been lost,” she said with a tearful smile. “My father would be dead—or worse. How can I ever thank you, Kusala? As I said before, you are like a second father to me. I owe you more than I can say.”

  “Your smile repays all debts,” Kusala said. “I love you, my lady, like the daughter I never had—at least, that I know of.”

  She laughed at that, but without derision—and then scampered down the hall, her gown fluttering behind her.

  When Kusala entered the royal chambers, Henepola was nowhere to be seen, but Indajaala was snoozing in a cushioned chair near the bed, his chin resting on his chest. When Kusala poked his shoulder, the conjurer sat up with a yelp.

  “Why didn’t you just take off my head with your uttara?” Indajaala complained.

  Kusala laughed harder than he should have. He was cursed—or blessed, depending on your point of view—with The Torgon’s mischievous sense of humor. “I’m sorry, but I couldn’t resist. I have never seen you look so vulnerable.”

  “You’d be vulnerable too, if you’d had as little sleep as I. Since Utu healed the king, only Madiraa has spent more time in these chambers.”

  Kusala’s face grew serious. “How is Henepola? And where is he?”

  “He awaits you on the balcony. There is a ewer of wine on the table near the window. The king asks that you fill your own goblet before joining him.”

  “How goes his recovery?”

  “Ask him, not me.”

  When Kusala stepped onto the balcony, he was surprised to see that Utu was with Henepola. Both were gazing northeastward, in the direction of Java, the dark forest that lay between Nissaya and Avici, home of Invictus. The king was adorned in white robes and held a goblet of wine. The snow giant, as usual, wore only his loincloth and abstained from refreshment.

  Kusala stood behind them for what seemed like a long time. He noticed that neither Utu nor Henepola was speaking—or even moving. It was as if they were in a trance.

  “Am I welcome to join you?” Kusala finally said.

  He expected both to be startled, as Indajaala had been; instead, they turned their heads slowly and smiled.

  Utu did not speak, but Henepola said, “Please do, my friend. It is a wondrous evening. When the moon rises at midnight, it will be even more magnificent.”

  Kusala walked over to the king and leaned against the balcony wall. He too stared at the clear night sky. Its grandeur soon seduced him. Not until the crescent moon appeared on the eastern horizon did Henepola break the silence.

  “The snow giant has taught me the value of life.”

  Utu grunted.

  “Sire?” Kusala said.

  “To truly appreciate such beauty for just a single moment is worth more than victory in a thousand wars,” the king said softly.

  “I have taught him nothing,” Utu said, “other than that I’m not much of a conversationalist. After a few days, his fey mood will pass, and he will return to his former ignorance. Humans always do.”

  Henepola threw back his head and guffawed. “More wine!” he said to Kusala. “But none for our large friend. He’s a teetotaler, you know.”

  “This wine you so cherish is nothing but dirty water to me,” the snow giant said matter-of-factly.

  Kusala went back into the royal chambers and refilled the king’s goblet and his own. Indajaala was gone. When he returned to the balcony, Henepola and Utu were silent again.

  “Sire, to my great pleasure, you appear strong again,” Kusala said. “Madiraa is relieved, as well. How do you fare?”

  “Never better, chieftain. Well, that’s not entirely true. It would be more accurate to say, never wiser. My final days will be spent with appreciation of my blessings. Kusala, you’ll be pleased to hear that the snow giant has converted me. I no longer believe in an all-powerful creator who sleeps while we toil. I only believe in now.”

  “I did no such thing,” Utu said. “The man raves even worse than I.”

  Henepola exploded in laughter again.

  Kusala arched an eyebrow. “There is much to be done, sire. Mala’s army approaches. We must take stock.”

  Henepola quickly grew serious. “Tomorrow, you and I—along with my precious daughter—will begin the final preparations. I have a few surprises for our foe. When Mala arrives, he will find us more than ready.”

  “More than ready,” Utu agreed.

  4

  “WHAT ARE WE going to do if he finds you?”

  “He won’t.”

  “He found you before.”

  “I wasn’t hiding then. I was only sleeping.”

  “And he wasn’t trying as hard. Do you know what he did today?”

  “No.”

  “He destroyed Carūūldassana, she who bore your only offspring.”

  “Then both are dead, one long before the other.”

  “And here I thought you were the sentimental type.”

  “I care only for . . .”

  “. . . myself. I know.”

  “Yes.”

  “Would you like to hear what else my grandson did today?”

  “No.”

  “I’ll tell you, anyway.”

  “I knew you would.”

  “He blew up half a mountain.”

  “And you know this because . . . ?”

  “One of my girlfriends witnessed the entire thing and told me all about it.”

  “I see.”

  “And you’re still not worried?”

  “I’m very worried, but not about that.”
/>
  “Well, you should be . . . dragon.”

  “So you say . . . demon.”

  “Would you like to hear what I’m worried about?”

  “No.”

  “I’m worried that he’s going to find you and torture you, and that you’re going to reveal my . . . our . . . plan to him.”

  “You think me so weak?”

  “I think him so strong.”

  “I would die before I told him.”

  “I’m sure Yama-Deva would have said the same.”

  “The will of a snow giant does not compare to the will of Mahaasupanna.”

  “That’s debatable. But my grandson’s strength is not. Why don’t you just admit that he’s stronger than you? It’s nothing to be ashamed of. He’s stronger than anyone who has ever been.”

  “He caught me by surprise the first time.”

  “Liar.”

  “Perhaps.”

  “If he learns the details of my plan, we both will lose. Keep in mind that Invictus is quite angry with you. He won’t rest until you are properly punished. Or at least enslaved. Would you like to become another Mala?”

  “Don’t insult me.”

  “I’m trying to save you . . . and me, of course.”

  “Of course.”

  “I have another . . . plan. But it will take your cooperation.”

  “Why do I not like the sound of this?”

  “Ha!”

  “Go on . . .”

  “There is a spell—powerful, mysterious, but long forgotten . . . except by a very few. Once woven, it cannot be undone. But it works only if the recipient accepts it without resistance. It is not something I could force upon you.”

  “As if there is anything . . .”

  “You are insufferable!”

  “Yes.”

  “Would you like to hear more about the spell?”

  “I take it back. There is one thing you can force upon me: your annoying voice.”

  “You have always underestimated my wisdom.”

  “Hardly.”

  “I have the ability to erase your memories.”

  “Do you now?”

  “Yes, but it will come with a price.”

  “Doesn’t everything a demon offers?”

  “That depends on your point of view.”

  “All right, you’ve made me curious. What is the price?”

  “I’m not able to erase specific memories. I’m talking all your memories. Every single one. Permanently. Your mind will become a blank slate.”

  “If it’s true you are capable of this, why would I allow you to perform such a heinous act on me?”

  “Yama-Deva would have begged me to do this.”

  “The snow giant’s memories were erased, anyway.”

  “There’s a difference between buried and erased.”

  “Hmmmm . . . I see your point.”

  “Here’s all I’m suggesting: If the worst occurs and Invictus finds you . . . If you and he do battle and he prevails . . . If what he does to you is too hideous to endure . . . just remember our conversation. And if I appear and say two words to you in the ancient tongue—words that you’ll instantly recognize—simply say yes. Just think . . . all your suffering will vanish.”

  “And what will become of my body?”

  “You won’t care.”

  “Demon! I care too much, especially for my memories. I’ll never say yes.”

  “Let’s hope you never have to.”

  “I’ll never say yes.”

  “That remains to be seen.”

  5

  ON THE EIGHTH day since the beginning of his march to Nissaya, the leader of Invictus’ army stood in the middle of the road called Iddhi-Pada and gazed toward the Mahaggata Mountains. Something disturbed Mala, as if a great event were about to transpire—and then he felt the ground tremble subtly beneath his bare feet. Soon after, his keen eyes discerned a cloud of dust far to the west.

  Augustus, the newborn soldier who had replaced Lucius the firstborn as Mala’s subordinate, rode alongside his leader and stared toward the mountains. Unlike Mala, the newborn did not possess vision capable of seeing the smoky debris more than forty leagues away.

  “My lord,” Augustus said. “What troubles you? Should I send scouts to investigate?”

  “Huh? What? No . . . no! Don’t be stupid.”

  “I apologize, my lord. I meant no offense.”

  “I apologize, my lord. I meant no offense. What an ass-kisser you are! In some ways I preferred Lucius. At least he had a little fight in him.”

  Augustus lowered his head, knowing better than to say anything that might anger Mala further. “Yes, my lord,” he said, and rode back to his original position.

  The Kojin named Harīti came over next. She obviously was enamored of Mala, and he found her attractive as well. Nothing had happened yet, but that didn’t mean he wasn’t interested. A woman could do a lot with six hands!

  The Kojin was incapable of verbal enunciation, but she psychically pressed her thoughts into his mind.

  “You saw it too?” Mala said. “What was it?”

  The Kojin answered him silently.

  “There hasn’t been a volcano that powerful in a long time,” Mala responded. “No, I’m guessing something else. Is it possible our king found the flea-bitten dragon?”

  Another response.

  Mala guffawed.

  “Such language, Harīti! You’re making me blush.”

  Then he pounded Vikubbati’s tail on the stone roadway. Golden energy exploded from the trident’s tines, launching a trio of lightning bolts skyward. En masse, the golden soldiers quivered—as if sensing something ominous in the trident’s vast power. The ponderous march continued.

  Well before dark, Mala signaled a halt. His army was moving slower than an old man on a cane, less than four leagues a day. Though it was huge—stretching more than five leagues from front to back—it still was capable of traversing at least eight leagues a day with little harm to morale. At this rate, the scant provisions allocated to the newborns would be depleted by the time they reached Nissaya. A starving army could not assail a fortress of such magnitude. And it was certain that the damnable black knights hadn’t left much of value outside their walls.

  But Mala wasn’t concerned. There would be plenty of food within the walls.

  During one of Augustus’ more daring moments, the newborn general had discussed the situation with Mala. “What if the Nissayans burn their provisions before we breach the third bulwark?”

  “Will they burn themselves?”

  Augustus had cringed. “There will be plenty for the monsters to eat. But what of the golden soldiers? We are mere men, after all.”

  Mala had only laughed.

  Now he sat near an angry fire fueled by the torn-down buildings of an abandoned village. Suddenly the blaze increased tenfold. Out of the gloom of dusk strode Invictus.

  “Greetings, my pet.”

  “My king!” Mala said, leaping to his feet. Then his voice grew puzzled. “Have you come to join us?”

  “No . . . no. That would not do. We must stick to our plan. But I’ve brought you another gift! An unexpected one.” The sorcerer unfolded the fingers of his right hand. Lying in his palm was a crimson ring large enough to fit around an ordinary man’s wrist but just the right size for the middle finger of Mala’s left hand.

  “My king . . . it is beautiful.”

  “Yes, it is. And very powerful. The flesh, blood, and magic of a great dragon are woven into the band. I have named it Carūūl. Along with Vikubbati, it will serve you well in the days to come.”

  “Thank you, my king. I am honored.”

  “Yes, you are.”

  Then Invictus stepped away. “Night approaches. I return to Avici now.”

  After the sorcerer was gone, Mala stared at the ring for a long time. Then he slid it onto his finger. It burned like his chain, but he didn’t care. It was a perfect fit.

  ON THE TENTH day
of the march, Mala’s army reached the northern fringe of Java. General Augustus Pontius rode slowly along on his destrier, purposely remaining at least a stone’s throw (by a troll) away from the Chain Man. Why Mala had ordered such a sluggish pace was beyond Augustus’ comprehension, but it was taking its toll on his golden soldiers, wearing them out even more than a frantic march would have. To make matters worse, a damnable heat followed their every step, clinging to their backs like a cloak of fire.

  The commander of the Premier First Legion rode beside Augustus. Though Mala was far ahead and blabbering to no one in particular, the commander still felt the need to whisper.

  “General Augustus, the provisions are unfairly dispersed. The monsters are being given favorable treatment—and even our water is rationed. The newborns grow weak with hunger and thirst—for no reason. It is as if Mala considers us the enemy. Is there nothing you can do?”

  “I’m as troubled as you, commander. But since the march began, Mala has been even more difficult than usual. I spoke with him about this very subject a couple of days ago, and he claimed there will be an abundance of food for all of us once Nissaya falls. As for my being able to do anything, don’t make me laugh. We all know he favors the Kojins and the rest of the monsters over any of the newborns.”

  “Our legions deserve better than this.”

  “I will speak to him again, commander. But be prepared to take my place. It wouldn’t surprise me if Mala bit off my head, helm and all.”

  “I don’t envy you, Augustus. But right now, I don’t envy any of us. We are being treated like slaves.”

  “That’s exactly what we are.”

  ON THE TWELFTH day of the march, Mala had traveled more than six leagues into Java. For the next twenty-plus leagues, Iddhi-Pada, the ancient road, would become little more than a primitive path less than twenty paces wide. This funneling effect would slow his army further, and it would take at least twelve more days for the entire force to pass through the Dark Forest.

  Though he had been inside Java only a few times, Mala had grown to love its interior; beneath the gnarled canopy, it always was as dark as night. And there were all kinds of creepy-crawly creatures that existed nowhere else in the world. Some of them were extremely dangerous, but not to Mala. There were snakes as thick as trees that he found especially delicious; and bats with wingspans as broad as dracools that also were luscious. The army was scaring most everything away with its racket, but Mala was on alert just in case something tasty came near enough for him to throttle.