Torn By War: 4 (The Death Wizard Chronicles)

by Melvin, Jim

  “We thank you for the bounty of your gifts.”

  Then a third time.

  “Amen.”

  She turned to Torg. “Many honored guests are among us, you not the least of them. Though our faith in the One God is strong, we do our best to respect the beliefs of others. Is there anything you would like to say before we eat?”

  Torg stood and faced the gathering. When he spoke, he made certain that all in attendance could hear his voice by adding a touch of magic to amplify and sweeten his voice.

  “Thank you, your highness, for your beneficence. Rarely in Triken’s long history has there been a greater need for the forces of good to put aside their personal differences and unite as one. None among us here desire dominion or enslavement. Freedom is our banner—and we will fight and die beneath it, without exception. All living beings have much in common. Life is a struggle, and there are no givens. None truly know when or if the next meal will come. Each morsel of food is a gift from the sun, air, rain, and ground. May all here tonight . . . the weakest and strongest . . . youngest and oldest . . . human and beast . . . behave in a manner that is worthy of this gift.”

  The Tugars among them shouted, “Ema! Ema! (Yes! Yes!)” And then there was a great clattering of sword against sword.

  On that night, good fellowship abounded. General Navarese made peace with Archbishop Bernard and then with Torg, though he remained confused over the events that had transpired five nights before when he had mysteriously awoken in the queen’s bedchambers.

  The Daasa made new friends too. Even the destriers grew to love them. When midnight approached, the pink creatures wandered one by one into the forest to sleep, preferring the trees to the open plains. Torg noticed that Lucius and Bonny followed them, hand in hand. Then he looked around for Laylah and saw that several Tugars encircled her, each of whom seemed entranced by whatever story she was telling. Rajinii was speaking to Navarese, Bernard, and several other members of the Privy Council. Torg watched them all with mindfulness. He noticed a light touch on his arm.

  Jord stood beside him, the green aura still strong. “Have you noticed the difference?”

  “My lady?”

  “The difference in Lucius.”

  “I’m not sure what you mean.”

  “Lucius is of the Daasa,” Jord said.

  “I knew that already. How is that different than before?”

  “Lucius is of the Daasa—in all ways. And he is now aware.”

  Torg arched an eyebrow. Now he understood, and it amazed him. Then he realized that if Bonny were to be with Lucius, she too might know this. “And the pirate?” Torg said.

  Jord nodded. “She too is of the Daasa.”

  Torg stood silently and absorbed the ramifications of this revelation. “Are you saying, then, that they both can . . . change?”

  The Faerie smiled. “They are not your match, but they are far stronger than they appear.”

  Torg started to ask Jord a question, but Rajinii rang the gong again—twelve times, methodically.

  “The queen of Jivita will take her leave,” she said to all in attendance. “The next time I ride out of the gates of the White City, I will be on Arusha’s back—horse and rider in full armor. Until then, God bless us all!”

  Beneath a blanket of stars on a moonless night, she leapt onto her white stallion and galloped toward Jivita, so quickly that none could keep up. Of all the horses in the world, only Bhojja could have run so far so fast. Torg watched as the queen disappeared into the darkness.

  6

  THE RAGE OF Kattham Bhunjaka could not be measured in words. Though most of her bulbous body was little more than a birthing chamber for druid nymphs, a still-sizeable portion contained her brain, which was larger than that of any living creature on Triken. Even the craniums of great dragons were miniature in comparison.

  The thought processes that leapt explosively between the cells of the jelly-like tissue were like no others—both in scope and perspective. Not even the Mahanta pEpa equaled the druid queen’s breadth of awareness. The power of her mind radiated outward like the heat from a furnace. Her druids were genetically attuned to it, but few other beings were immune to her will, as well.

  Though her mind was amazing, her body was terrible to behold, and she hated that her thoughts were trapped within a disgusting blob of immobility, forcing her to live vicariously through her children’s eyes. The Jivitans, with their beautiful faces and bodies, mocked her grotesqueness, and she despised them beyond all things. Their destruction was her life’s desire—and because she craved it, the druids did too.

  The only other thing she hated as much as the Jivitans was the wizard who had butchered her mother. After Torg and his companions escaped her clutches, Kattham had raged for days. Losing the services of the clever witch only made matters worse. Soon after the wizard was gone, the druid queen used her mind to probe the body of the vampire that lay beside Jākita’s headless corpse. Though Urbana had lost most of her fetid blood, her heart still beat. Kattham ordered the druids to lift the vampire’s body and bring it to her. They inserted it beneath one of the folds of her hide, where it sank deep into the behemoth’s inner tissues, floating within her viscous ooze in a state of catatonia. Healing took place. And more.

  Much more.

  On the same night that the Jivitans feasted on the Green Plains, Kattham Bhunjaka gave birth to a child entirely different from her usual brood. A new and improved version of Urbana tumbled onto the dirt floor from a tube in the rear of the queen’s body. The druids fell upon her, using their sticky tongues to lick off the green goo that clung to the vampire’s flesh.

  Afterward Urbana stood slowly, dazed and confused, and more than once she staggered and fell. But finally the strength returned to her limbs, and she rose to her full height. When once she had been a span shorter than Laylah, now she was as large as a Kojin in height and girth.

  “Where am I?” Urbana said out loud, goo dribbling from her mouth.

  “You are born to me,” Kattham said within the vampire’s mind. “You are like me. Of me. With me. My desires are your desires. My aversions are your aversions. You shall lead my babies into battle. All will fall before you.”

  Urbana smiled. “Ahhh, now I understand. Your wish is my command.”

  “I love you like no other,” Kattham whispered.

  Urbana’s smile broadened.

  Ever paranoid, Kattham refused to suffer the same fate as her mother. It was time to move to a safer hiding place. Two thousand druids lifted her, and it took half the night just to squeeze her through the opening of the hollow tree. Afterward, they carried her through the forest to a hidden place of darkness that not even the Faerie was capable of unveiling. Then Kattham lay in her new hidey-hole and discussed her plans with her enthusiastic assistant.

  Urbana reveled in her new might. This was better than being queen of the vampires. Now she was master of an army that could avenge all the evils incurred against the druids.

  In psychic unison, Kattham knew Urbana’s thoughts—and reveled in them too.

  RATHBURT’S DREAMS were troubled. Once again he faced the Warlish witch inside the lair of the druid queen, pointing the Silver Sword at her with defiance. But this time the supernal weapon felt even more cumbersome. The witch cackled at his impotence, though in his dream she was replaced by the vampire grown to thrice her height and swollen with a fell might that laughably dwarfed his own.

  “When the others have been destroyed, I will come for you next,” the monster bellowed. “And we’ll have some fun, you and I . . . oh yes.”

  It was Rathburt’s turn to laugh.

  “I am not for you. My future is even bleaker than the one you propose. Nothing you can say will frighten me worse than my true destiny.”

  The vampire snarled, exposing fangs as thick as his wrists, but it was obvious she acknowledged the truth in his words. She backed away and disappeared into the gloom. In the range of his vision, all that remained was a single tree
—small and gnarled.

  The tree frightened Rathburt far worse than the vampire.

  He screamed and screamed.

  THE JIVITAN SCOUT sat upon her mount and cocked her head. She usually did not ride this far into the forest, especially alone and at night, but she had heard strange noises and wanted to make sure no druids were in the vicinity. Women and men like her were the White City’s first line of defense. The sooner they gave warning of the impending invasion, the better.

  The scout rode to the rim of a hollow. It was too dark to see down into its tree-choked interior, but she again could hear noises: sobbing and mewling sounds, and sharp cries. She dismounted, drew a dagger, and started to descend, but then a strange girl appeared.

  “There is no need,” the girl said to the scout.

  “Excuse me, little one?”

  “There is nothing here of interest.”

  The scout felt dizzy. The glow from the girl’s dress grew intense, hurting her eyes. She found herself running toward her horse and riding off in a rush, blaming her disorientation on the terrible will of the trees. She fled southward to more familiar territory. When she finally became clear-headed, her memory of the girl had faded.

  Another scout met up with her.

  “Quiet night, don’t you think?” he said. “Have you seen anything?”

  “Nothing of interest,” she said. “But this quiet won’t last forever. One day soon the druids will pass this way. It’s as if I can hear them already. The forest is filled with voices.”

  “I know what you mean,” he said. “I hate all this waiting.”

  Sounding the Horn

  1

  THE MORNING AFTER the feast in the Green Plains, Torg prepared to ride with Laylah, Elu, Ugga, Bard, and Jord toward the White City, where they would spend the final days until the druid invasion. Torg was not surprised when Lucius and Bonny chose to stay behind with the Daasa, though they would not be alone. He overheard Navarese order a squadron of white horsemen to remain with the general as protection.

  “Who will be protecting whom?” Lucius said to Navarese, but then quickly added, “I’m joking, of course. I much appreciate your generosity in this matter, general.”

  Navarese did not take offense. “Their job will be to make sure that you and Bonny Calico are well fed and provisioned. Be safe, Lucius Annaeus. I will return and speak with you more.”

  “I look forward to it,” Lucius said.

  “A final question, before I depart. Would you like us to supply you and your lady with suits of Jivitan armor?”

  “That won’t be necessary,” Lucius said. “We carry our own weapons—and armor. But clean clothes would be most appreciated, and it’s been many days since we’ve properly bathed.”

  “A pair of copper tubs will be arranged within the curtained privacy of one of the pavilions,” Navarese said. “They’re safer, and warmer, than the river.” Then he bowed. “Until we meet again.”

  “Indeed.”

  From Torg’s perspective, the pieces of the puzzle were falling neatly into place. The queen had been freed of Invictus’ psychic clutches, Navarese had become more interested in strategy than politics, and Lucius and the Daasa had arrived safely and been accepted by the Jivitans. All that remained was the battle itself.

  Ugga and Bard’s reaction to the White City amused Torg. As soon as they arrived, Ugga leapt off his mount and ran into one of the fields, where he cast himself onto a fragrant patch of wildflowers. Elu joined him, and the unusual pair frolicked like father and son. Laylah laughed so hard, Torg feared she might fall off Izumo.

  Burly rode up beside them on a pony even smaller than Elu’s, though it looked extremely large when compared to the diminutive Gillygaloo enchanter.

  “If you think they’re happy now,” Burly said, “wait until they get a taste of my special ale.”

  Hearing this perked up Bard, who had been lingering nearby.

  “I would love some of that myself,” the handsome trapper said. “Can we go there tonight, Master Hannah? We’ve still got a pouch of coins leftover from the Whore City.”

  “Your money’s no good in Jivita,” Burly said. “Any friend of Torg’s is a friend of mine. For you and your friends, everything’s on the house.”

  “I think that’s a grand idea,” Laylah said. “If we’re not all too saddle-sore, let’s all go to Boulogne’s tonight.”

  “I’ll be sure to save you seats,” Burly said, “though it’s tough nowadays with all the pesky Tugars about.”

  “They won’t be a problem,” Torg said. “As opposed to a certain Gillygaloo I know, they do what they’re told.” Then he turned to Captain Julich. “How many civilians remain within the city?” he said to the senior commander. “Merchants like Burly are one thing, but what of the others? From what I’ve seen, the streets seem overly crowded.”

  “Less than a third have evacuated,” Julich said. “Leaving their homes and businesses is tiresome, and most of them do not believe they are in serious danger from the druids. They know firsthand the strength of our army and do not believe we will lose.”

  “There are no givens in the world,” Torg said. “Defeating the druids will be tough enough. Defeating Mala will be even more difficult. But I suppose that even the havens offer no guarantee of safety.”

  SADDLE-SORE OR not, all took pleasure in Boulogne’s that night. Though the specter of war hung over them like a rain-engorged cloud, they somehow were able to put aside their dread. Even the queen joined them, dressed in the robes of a commoner, a veil concealing her black hair. To Torg’s relief, the streets and alleys were less crowded than they had been; perhaps more civilans had fled to the havens in recent days.

  Ugga and Bard made up for lost time, guzzling mug after mug of Burly’s rich ale, while Torg, Laylah, Rajinii, and several dozen desert warriors sipped Tugarian wine. The queen drank especially hard. Jord seemed to be the only one who wasn’t in the mood for merriment, sitting quietly off to the side with a pensive expression on her ageless face.

  Eventually, everyone except the Faerie became inebriated, including Torg and the Tugars. Laylah and a wild-eyed Rajinii amazed Torg by climbing on top of one of the long tables and doing an impromptu but impressive song and dance that included perfect harmony and bare-legged kicks. Sometime late in the evening, during the height of the revelry, Jord grasped Torg’s arm and dragged him into the alley. Then she led him to a dark corner away from prying eyes.

  “I sense something different in you,” she said, discarding the northern dialect that she often assumed in front of Bard and Ugga.

  “My lady?”

  “You have changed since I last saw you.”

  “I don’t understand.”

  “You have seen something. Tell me!”

  “How can you know this?”

  “I am Vijjaadharaa. Do not waste precious time with such foolish questions. Tell me, Torgon.”

  “Very well! A few nights ago, I achieved Maranapavisana . . .”

  “Yes, I know.”

  “How could you know?”

  “I am Vijjaadharaa! But what did you see?”

  “I’m not sure. Something was . . . there—green energy. And sounds . . . voices. I was disturbed.”

  Jord seemed fascinated. “Were the voices threatening?”

  “I sensed no malevolence. But I have visited death a thousand times before and never noticed green lights . . . or voices. The Realm of Death has always been silent. Why was this visit different?”

  The Faerie stepped back, her eyes glowing like molten emeralds. “There are beings beyond all known laws, Torgon, natural or otherwise. When the magic of the pines coursed through your flesh, you became more sensitive to their presence. Perhaps you were able to sense what they are about.”

  “And that is?”

  “Karma is not the only driving force.”

  “Are you saying that the Jivitans are right? Or the Nissayans?”

  Jord threw back her head and laughed. Sparkle
s of green light sprang from her ears, nostrils, and mouth. “It matters naught who is right or wrong, Torgon! What will be, will be. But there are certain truths that cannot be denied. The harmlessness of death is one of them. It is the suffering created by ignorance that is the true damnation of the living. But the beings you sensed in your latest Death Visit care naught for fear, suffering, or ignorance. They care only for what they are compelled to do. And there are trillions of them.”

  Torg sighed. “I understand little of what you say. But if they are so many, cannot these beings defeat Invictus?”

  “If only it were so . . . but Suriya (the Sun God) is greater even than they. Though the Vijjaadharaa are numerous beyond count, their abilities to destroy are limited by their very nature. Their purpose is to guide the karmas of dead beings to their next existences. But they also sometimes choose to guide the living, which is why Faeries like me are born into existence. Perhaps I can continue to guide you. But you’ll have to let me.”

  “You think I will not?”

  “Enough has been said,” Jord said, smiling wanly. “Allow me to change the subject.” When she spoke next, her eyes glowed green. “I’m surprised you haven’t asked me to take you to Nissaya. I could fly you there now. Before morning, you could be with Kusala at the fortress.”

  “Kusala is not at the fortress,” Torg said. “I ordered him to return to Anna with the noble ones. Regardless, I cannot be in two places at once. I belong here.”

  “By Jivita’s side? Or Laylah’s?”

  “Both.”

  “And if Nissaya falls?”

  “My presence would not turn the tide.” Then he said, “Do you counsel me to go?”

  “As you like to say, we shall see what we shall see . . . let us return before Laylah notices you’re missing and becomes jealous.”

  Then to Torg’s surprise, the Faerie leaned up and kissed him on the mouth.

  “That is one of the truly nice things about inhabiting a human body,” she said before sprinting back to Boulogne’s.