Torn By War: 4 (The Death Wizard Chronicles)

by Melvin, Jim

  Near morning, she approached the rim of a broad canyon. She knew this place well. Pale sand filled the canyon, as if an offspring of Tējo had taken residence within the wasteland. The circular rim stood about fifty cubits high. Tāseti scaled it easily and then made her way down. When she reached the canyon floor, a horrendous odor assaulted her. She raced toward the source—and found that she was not alone.

  Six armed men had encircled a smoldering campfire. They wore gray head-cloths and long white shirts that hung past their knees. Tāseti recognized them as Kalliks, bandit tribesmen who wandered the desert. They were few in number but wicked, preying on the weak and unwary. The Tugars sometimes sent out hunting parties to weed out the worst of them.

  When the Kalliks saw Tāseti approaching, they backed nervously away from the fire, but she was far less interested in them than in what they had been investigating. When she reached the smoldering cinders, she gasped. A blackened body lay upon the coals, tendrils of smoke rising from its scorched flesh. A few cubits away was the skeleton of another man, its white bones stripped clean of hair and flesh.

  The Kalliks feared Tugars—and Asēkhas, especially—for the obvious reason that Kalliks were no match for them. The tallest among them was four spans shorter than Tāseti, but he managed the courage to approach her. When she turned to face him, he cast himself onto the sand.

  She reached down and cuffed his ear. “Speak clearly, in the common tongue,” she commanded. “I have little time for nonsense.”

  “We did not do this thing, Desert Mistress,” the tribesman whined. “The smoke attracted us—and the smell—and we arrived here just a few moments before you, I swear it.”

  Tāseti cuffed him again, just because she was annoyed and felt like doing it. “From which direction did you come? And what did you see?”

  “From the southeast, across the floor of the canyon. And we saw nothing, Mistress! We are honest men.”

  Tāseti grunted. “Since when have Kalliks ever been honest? Don’t toy with me, fool. And I can see that one of your camels does not belong to you. He has been fed.”

  “We found him wandering in the canyon. He is ours, fairly taken.”

  “He is mine, now,” Tāseti said. “Be off, all of you, before I get angry. And another thing: If you come upon a gelding, do not touch it. It also belongs to me. If I find that you have harmed it, I will make it my life’s duty to butcher every Kallik alive in the world.”

  The tribesman backed away, as if grateful to be spared. But he was bold enough to say one last thing before retreating. “This was not the work of a Lyon or wolf,” he said, gesturing toward the carnage. “What could have done such a thing, Mistress?”

  “The world is full of monsters, fool. Even Tējo is not immune. If I were you, I would ride east and slink among the dunes until the storms pass.”

  Then she mounted the camel and rode northward. The beast seemed grateful to be with her.

  3

  ON THE SAME morning that Tāseti confronted the desert bandits, Kusala stood atop Hakam, surveying the fortress from above. King Henepola, Princess Madiraa, Yama-Utu and Indajaala joined him. Several senior commanders also huddled nearby, including Palak. It was their third conference since the healing of the conjurer king, though the first held outside the keep.

  Henepola’s recuperative powers stunned Kusala. The king looked decades younger than he had just a few days before, his eyes clear and alert. Best of all, he had returned to being his former self—and then some. In fact, Kusala had never found the king so pleasant to be around. It was as if most of his irritating qualities—even those that had existed long before Invictus had become involved—had been tempered. Now Henepola exuded a contagious confidence.

  “We all know we’re missing something, but we still have no idea what it is,” the king said. “Let’s review again what we’ve discussed. Perhaps the mystery is nestled within our words.”

  “Very well,” Kusala said. “First, we all agree that there is no value in meeting Mala outside the fortress walls. Despite their superior numbers, the golden soldiers would be manageable—but the monsters are too powerful. Whatever damage we would inflict with sallies would be minimal. Our hope lies within the walls. Not until his army has crumbled at the base of Balak should we issue forth to greet the Chain Man.”

  “Mala knows this too,” Palak said. “Yet he marches fearlessly. Even the dracools are kept on a leash. If the white horsemen were among us, Mala would not be so bold.”

  “But they are not,” the king said, “and we should stop complaining about it. Now that I am free from the sorcerer’s spells, I more clearly understand the Jivitans’ motives for remaining in the White City. Queen Rajinii faces her own dangers.”

  “I agree that we should not complain—only because it will do us no good,” Kusala said. “Personally, I would prefer Lord Torgon to be here over the entire Jivitan army. But that also has not occurred.”

  “Our scouts in the field report that Mala’s army nears Java,” Palak said. “Though a few of our riders have been spotted, the Chain Man chooses not to pursue. Perhaps he believes the more we know, the more we will cower.”

  “And yet he brings no siege towers,” Madiraa said. “If he plans to build them in Java, that will slow him even more than the wreckage of Iddhi-Pada. Yet without these machines, how can he assault our walls? And even with them, the effort would be fruitless. Balak alone is too strong, tall, and well-manned to succumb to such tactics, and yet the first of our three bulwarks is dwarfed by its larger brothers, Ott and Hakam. How could Mala possibly expect to breach all three of our walls? It cannot be done.”

  “Mala’s army could number a million, and yet he could not defeat us in that way,” Henepola said. “Balak might fall. Might, I say. But Ott would stand. And Hakam would only chuckle.”

  “The doors are our weakness,” Indajaala said. “They will concentrate all their strength against them.”

  “The doors are too well defended from above. They will not be broken,” Palak said. “I cannot see any way that the bulwarks will be breached. Kusala does not agree, but my belief is that Mala plans to starve us out.”

  “Your words hold credence,” Kusala said. “But flaws, as well. It is not as simple as Mala choosing to camp outside our walls through the spring and summer. For one thing, that would give the white horsemen, assuming they defeat the druids, time to come to our aid.” Kusala paused and ran his fingers through his shoulder-length hair. Then he said, “I believe the Chain Man does not have the patience for a long siege. He desires a decisive victory. And more important, he believes his army capable of this feat. As Henepola says, we are missing something.”

  The snow giant spoke next, surprising all of them. He had remained silent during their previous conferences. “The most powerful sorcerer to ever live assails you, yet little has been mentioned of sorcery as a weapon.”

  “That’s not true,” Indajaala said. “We’ve discussed that aspect many times. Magical giants march with Mala, but they can be slain from above. We fear the Stone-Eaters, as well, but they will need time and protection to eat their way through our walls, which we will be sure not to give them. The Kojins and trolls are strong, but not that strong; they cannot batter down black granite with their fists. Not even Mala can do such a thing. So we return to our quandary.”

  “If your goal is to be prepared, then you must be ready for the inconceivable,” Utu said, but he did not elaborate further.

  “Regardless of their schemes, if Mala falls, his army will fall,” the king said to the snow giant. “It will be your task to destroy the Chain Man, though you will not be without aid.”

  Madiraa, the king’s daughter, nodded knowingly.

  LATER THAT AFTERNOON, Kusala found Utu sitting alone atop Balak.

  “You know something that you’re not telling us,” Kusala said softly enough so that no others could hear.

  “Why would I hide anything from you?” Utu said.

  “I’m not sure,
but I wish you’d be more forthright. We’re not your enemies.”

  “You are certain?”

  “If so, then why are you here?” Kusala said.

  “Do you have any brothers or sisters?” Utu said.

  “I had one brother, but he no longer lives.”

  “When and how did your brother die?”

  “He died peacefully of old age more than a century ago,” Kusala said. “He achieved the rank of warrior but fell short of Asēkha, so his lifespan was less than mine.”

  “Did you love him?” Utu said.

  “What kind of question is that? Of course I loved him.”

  “There is love and there is love. How many years did you spend together before he passed?”

  “Almost three hundred,” Kusala said.

  “Yama-Deva and I were together for more than fifty thousand,” Utu said.

  “From what I know of snow giants, this doesn’t surprise me. But at the same time I cannot fathom it.”

  “I asked you if you loved your brother. I tell you now that I loved mine.”

  “Your point?”

  “I like you, chieftain. I have even grown fond of the king. But I loved my brother. My desire to free him from this horror far surpasses anything else. If killing you would end Yama-Deva’s misery, I would do so without hesitation. Now do you comprehend me? Are you certain that you’re not my enemy?”

  “If killing me would destroy Mala, I would not resist,” Kusala said. “Are you certain that I’m not your friend?”

  The snow giant snorted. “For one so young, you have wisdom.”

  Kusala chuckled. “For one so old, you have heart.”

  THAT NIGHT, HENEPOLA lay alone in his bed. Several dozen candles lighted his chambers, chasing away enough of the darkness to allow him to sleep. But he did not slumber peacefully. Instead, he tossed and turned, moaning and sometimes shouting. Indajaala was the only other person in the room. Since his healing, Henepola had requested that either the conjurer or Madiraa remain with him during the night. Invictus no longer held sway, but memories of the sorcerer’s intrusions into his mind were still engrained in his subconscious.

  Suddenly Henepola sat upright and gasped.

  “Are you all right, sire?” Indajaala said. “Would you care for some tea or wine? I have spells that can calm your thoughts and potions that will sweeten your slumber.”

  “No more spells, no more potions!” the king said. “My mind must remain clear for the trials ahead. It’s just that when I close my eyes, I still see his face. It no longer holds sway over me, other than the power of fright. And yet, I do not fear him in the ways that you might imagine.”

  “How so?” the conjurer said.

  “He is not what you think,” the king said slowly. “Compared to you and me, he is just a boy.”

  “And yet, you fear more than immaturity.”

  “You know me well. Yes, it is more than that. When the sorcerer entered my mind, I glimpsed the full extent of the power the boy wielded. In that regard, when compared to Invictus, we are children. We speak of defeating Mala, but we always dance around the subject of the sorcerer. Why? Because deep down, we know that we cannot prevail. Perhaps the snow giants who remain in Okkanti have it right—or for that matter, the noble ones of Dibbu-Loka. We cannot defeat Invictus by force. And yet we are determined to try.”

  “We are who we are, sire—and know no other way. It is not in our blood to surrender our arms to any foe. And so we will fight. If we die . . . when we die . . . we will do so with courage.”

  “Courage? Is that not another word for ignorance?”

  “Perhaps, sire. But it’s a blessed ignorance.”

  The king laughed at that for a long time. Afterward, he said, “Leave me . . .”

  “Sire?”

  “My courage has returned. I no longer need a babysitter. Blow out the candles. I will sleep now . . . and take solace in the calm before the storm.”

  And so he did.

  4

  ON THE SAME afternoon that Kusala and Utu spoke privately atop Balak, Invictus stood inside his chambers near the rooftop of Uccheda and leaned over his yellow basin. A female dracool stood next to him.

  “What do you think that is?” Invictus said.

  “I see nothing but glazed snow,” Iriz responded.

  “Dracools have eyes like eagles. Use them!”

  Iriz’s leathery wings trembled ever so slightly. Invictus made her nervous. If he found out that she sometimes reported to Vedana, he would end her in a flash of agony.

  “I see a tiny . . . crack?”

  “Look closer!”

  Iriz leaned so near to the basin, her snout nearly touched the magical liquid. “Is it, perhaps, a strand of human hair?”

  “Yes . . . Yes!” the sorcerer said, clapping his hands. “And do you know what that means?”

  “My liege?”

  “It means that I have found Bhayatupa, you fool!”

  THOUGH IT PLEASURED him to lie amid his treasure, Bhayatupa occasionally felt the urge to stretch his wings. With Invictus on the prowl, it was dangerous to leave his lair, but the dragon’s enormous pride sometimes overcame his cautiousness. Besides, he had imbued this lair with far more of his magic than any other.

  Now he was on the summit, his wings stretched to their fullest, and he bathed in the harsh sunlight. Though most other areas of the land had become unseasonably hot, it still was cold as winter in the highest heights. The icy wind that blew against his scales was invigorating. For a time, Bhayatupa felt like his old self—Mahaasupanna, mightiest of all. No Sun God threatened his place in the world. He ruled supreme.

  When Vedana informed him that Invictus had slain Carūūldassana, he had feigned disinterest because there was no gain in displaying weakness to the ancient demon. But after Vedana departed, Bhayatupa had suffered enormous grief. Carūūldassana had been the one true love of his life, the only member of his kind who could bear his seed. Her beauty was unsurpassed by any creature, dragon or otherwise, and she had borne him a son whose scales were a crimson even deeper than his own. They had named him Mūlaka, and Bhayatupa had loved him desperately.

  During the height of Supanna-Sangaamaani (the Dragon Wars), Sankhaya, sister of Sankhayo, murdered Mūlaka before he achieved full growth. It was rumored that Ulaara the Black had ordered the assassination, believing that Bhayatupa’s sorrow would ruin him. But Ulaara’s plan failed. Instead of withdrawing from the world and withering away, Bhayatupa vowed vengeance. Soon after, he killed Sankhaya and then intimidated Ulaara into permanent exile. But the newly crowned Mahaasupanna would never again feel content. His obsession with eternal life took root after his son’s death. Even Carūūldassana fled from Bhayatupa’s anguish.

  Now he perched on the mountaintop, his grief haunting the peaks like the ghost of a god. “Carūūldassana . . . I love you!” he screamed within his mind. “Mūlaka . . . I miss you.”

  Maybe the demon was right. If she could wipe away his memories, she could wipe away his pain.

  Even as he writhed in emotional agony, a small part of his awareness sensed the sorcerer’s probing eyes. Bhayatupa leapt toward the cavern’s mouth and scrambled into his lair. Once there he lay still as death, unseen by all eyes except for his cadre of Mogol slaves.

  However, unbeknownst to the dragon, the Asēkha warrior who had betrayed him once would betray him again.

  The first time it had been her bones.

  The second time it would be a single strand of her black hair, frozen in the ice outside the entrance to his lair.

  5

  LESS THAN A week after Torg and Laylah healed the queen, General Lucius Annaeus stood before Worrins-Julich, senior captain of the army of Jivita, and introduced the members of his party. For the first time, it entered Lucius’ mind that he didn’t know their surnames, including the woman he loved.

  “That’s all right, Master Loo-shus,” said Ugga, the good-natured crossbreed. “Bard and I doesn’t even know our own last
names.”

  “Ugga never had one,” Bard said. “And I doesn’t remember mine.”

  “For the three of us, given names will do,” Jord said. “But I would be most excited to hear Bonny’s last name, if that’s all right with her.”

  The pirate woman blushed. Then she turned to Lucius and curtsied.

  “I am Bonny Calico, if it pleases you,” she said.

  “It does.”

  “If it pleases all of you, we should start toward Jivita immediately,” Julich said. “Scouts have already left our company to report your appearance, and an even larger escort should arrive henceforth. However, it would be quicker if the five of you rode instead of walked. Our steeds are well-behaved. Do any of you fear to mount?”

  “I isn’t scared of the horses, but they are scared of me,” Ugga said.

  “All of us can ride, captain,” said Jord, the magical woman who had been a longtime companion of Bard and Ugga. “I have a way with horses, you could say. They will do what I tell them, even when it comes to Ugga.”

  Julich nodded. “The Torgon has spoken of you, my lady. He was most adamant that you should be treated with high honor.”

  “I can’t wait to see Master Han-nah again! And the pretty lady and little guy, too,” Ugga bellowed. “If only poor Master Rad-burt were with them. It would be like the good ol’ days.”

  “The good ol’ days?” Bard said. “We’ve only known them for a little whiles, ya booger!”

  “All right, then . . . the good new days.”

  Lucius laughed. “Very well, Captain Julich, we will ride. And the Daasa should be able to keep up, though they tend to wander about. Did Torg warn you about their other tendency?”

  “We are aware,” Julich said. “The Torgon seems to believe that we will be in no danger, as long as we don’t try to harm any of you—which, of course, is not our intent.”