Torn By War: 4 (The Death Wizard Chronicles)

by Melvin, Jim

  “Purity is the enslaver,” Henepola had said.

  The Maōi wasn’t just cleansing his mind, it was healing it. In a relatively short time, Yama-Utu’s desire to destroy Mala would vanish, and his former pacifism would replace it. Santapadam (the Path of Peace) once again beckoned him.

  At first, Utu was enraged. How foolish he had been to put on the ring. But he dared to see the irony in it. The very magic that endangered his quest also gave him hope. Brute force could not defeat Mala, but what if the ring could infect his brother’s ruined mind? If he could get close enough to touch him with the pure Maōi . . . press it against the golden chain . . .

  Utu swung open the door and stepped into the larger chamber. His friends were waiting for him at the top of the stairs. The snow giant realized, at that moment, how much he loved them. Soon, love would be the only emotion that remained, the only one that mattered. He would have to defeat Mala before it possessed him completely.

  6

  IN HIS LONG life, Bhayatupa had ruled kingdoms and wreaked vengeance on his enemies. For tens of thousands of years, he had been the supreme force on all of Triken. He was Mahaasupanna, mightiest of all.

  Until now.

  Invictus had defeated him again—with absurd ease. But this time, unbeknown to anyone but himself, Bhayatupa had been prepared. Not even Vedana was aware of his duplicity. In fact, the dragon had used the demon’s ignorance—and arrogance—to authenticate his deception. Fooling the grandmother had made it possible to fool the grandson.

  This had nothing to do with brute force or magic. Bhayatupa’s continued survival now depended on his ability to pretend. If the sorcerer believed that all but his most basic memories had been erased, it gave Bhayatupa one last chance to regain his proper standing in the world.

  Bhayatupa had been perched on the rooftop of Uccheda for seven days. During that time, he had not moved. As long as he stayed still, the magical chain that looped around his neck remained cool enough to make the agony bearable.

  Since disappearing into the tower, Invictus had rarely visited. The few times the Sun God reappeared, Bhayatupa had remained motionless, eyes glazed but heart pounding. The sorcerer stared at him, studied him, even touched him—without suspicion, as far as Bhayatupa could discern. Instead, Invictus’ expression seemed to contain a mixture of curiosity and amusement.

  Bhayatupa clung to one hope: that Invictus would become bored.

  Boredom led to carelessness.

  Carelessness to failure.

  Bhayatupa’s eyes were glazed, but his mind burned with possibilities.

  Pure Madness

  1

  THE JIVITAN ARMY that surged northward toward Dhutanga was half a league wide and half a mile deep, which included five thousand infantry at its rear along with hundreds of supply wagons. The first row was composed of heavily armored cavalry. Four rows of lightly armored archers followed. This arrangement was duplicated eight more times. It took the army until late afternoon to traverse seven leagues.

  In the middle of the first row rode Queen Rajinii, her black hair flowing beneath her helm. To her right were Elu, Torg, Laylah, Ugga, and Bard. To her left, Navarese, Julich, Manta, and two other necromancers. Of the nine hundred in the lead row, only Torg, Bhojja, and ten-score Tugars did not wear armor.

  General Navarese called a halt three leagues from the southern border of Dhutanga. Soon after, the queen rode forward and turned to face the army. When she spoke, her voice carried a great distance. Though the horsemen were dispersed over more than one hundred hectares, the majority of them could hear her speech.

  “We await the arrival of our ungodly enemies. As we know, the druids prefer to fight at night, hoping to spread terror in the darkness. But we do not fear them, even when the sun has fallen. The One God, whom we name Ekadeva, will provide us with whatever illumination is needed for victory.”

  In unison, the white horsemen cheered. When the clamor dissipated, Rajinii spoke again.

  “By the glory of the One God, may we all survive the battle. But do not mourn those who die beneath Ekadeva’s banner. Their reward will be eternal bliss.”

  Amid more raucous cheering, the queen urged Arusha forward. As she passed Navarese and his mount, she said, “The army is yours, general. Do with it as you will. I am now just another soldier.”

  Navarese removed his helm and bowed in the high saddle. Then he rode forward and turned to face the massive gathering. When he spoke, his voice also was amplified, and Torg saw that he carried a staff of rare white oak similar to the queen’s, though the gem imbedded in its head was jasper instead of jade.

  “White horsemen, we will await our enemies here. But do not mistake torpor for cowardice. To the contrary, we are as confident of victory as we are in our faith. Even so, we will pay a dire price on this day. The druids will show no mercy. Therefore, we must not relent until every one of the enemy is destroyed.”

  There was no cheering; only the subtle tapping of countless arrow shafts.

  As if in response, the modest beginning of a dreaded sound crept toward their ears from the north.

  Humming.

  There was a collective series of gasps, but Navarese was not dismayed.

  “Every one of you has spent years in training so that on this day you would stand proud. Discipline, white horsemen! Trust in it. If you do, we . . . will . . . prevail.”

  The cheering that followed was the loudest yet, and for a time, it overwhelmed the distant sound of humming—but it could not do so forever.

  When Navarese returned to his post, he spoke to the queen in a voice only she and a few others could hear. “Soon I will retreat to a place of safety. I beseech you one final time, your highness. Join me.”

  “One final time, I deny your request,” the queen said. “Nay! I will not retreat. None among you have the might to dictate my behavior.”

  Again, Navarese bowed in the saddle. “As you say . . . your highness.”

  “Indeed!” Rajinii snapped.

  TORG PAID LITTLE attention to the orations. Instead, his great mind focused on the sorrow in his heart. Through his psychic connection with the Tugars, the wizard recently had sensed that two Asēkhas had died, though he was unable to identify who or where. Was Nissaya already under attack?

  Torg kept his fears to himself, gaining comfort from Laylah’s presence. He held her gauntleted hand, which his bare palm dwarfed. She knew what he must do next, and it was obvious that it troubled her.

  “I will return with news of the enemy,” Torg said to the general.

  “If it weren’t for the demise of the eagles, I would not ask such a thing,” Navarese said.

  “I know this well.”

  With Torg on her bare back, Bhojja cantered off. At the last moment, Laylah urged Izumo forward and joined them.

  “My love, you must not follow,” Torg said. “Izumo is great, but he is no match for Bhojja.”

  “I will not follow. I come only to wish you well.”

  Torg smiled. “Rathburt often accused me of enjoying the role of hero, but in this instance, at least, he would be wrong. I am not so vain as to believe that I can defeat the entire druid army by myself. This time, I am a scout and nothing more. No harm will come to me, I promise. Bhojja will see to it.”

  The mare nickered.

  “If you don’t return, there’ll be no one here to protect me,” Laylah said.

  Torg leaned across his horse and kissed her.

  “Look for me at sunset!” he cried, before riding off in a blur of hooves and dust toward Dhutanga.

  Immediately, Bhojja picked up speed, reaching the southern border of the forest in a fraction of the time it would have taken an ordinary horse. But to Torg’s surprise, the mare came to a sudden halt and bowed, urging him to dismount. When he did, the mare transformed into Jord.

  “And to what do I owe the pleasure?” Torg said.

  “From here, I would prefer to fly. I can run very fast, but not always quietly. It’s not the drui
ds I fear. They are so consumed by hatred, their senses are blinded. But your friends might hear or see me.”

  “Lucius and Bonny?”

  “Not them. It is Rathburt who concerns me. The two of you must not meet. The time will come, but it is not now.”

  “Says who? Your superiors?”

  “You must trust my intentions. Do you believe it possible I would betray you?”

  “No.”

  “I will carry you, then. But not as Bhojja.”

  Then she transformed into the mountain eagle named Sakuna and lowered her head in obeisance. Torg climbed onto her back and nestled in her warm feathers. Though he had ridden on her before, he noticed for the first time that a green glow clung to her skin beneath her plumage. When he touched the shimmering magic, his fingers tingled.

  Sakuna sprang into the air and rose above the trees, following Cariya northward, then turning west and skimming the canopy. The green shimmer expanded enough to encase both of them, matching the foliage like camouflage. They flew in silence, casting the barest of shadow.

  In a short time, Torg saw the Daasa skittering about recklessly, and then Lucius and Bonny leading the way. Quickly, Sakuna veered slightly north and picked up speed, then lighted on the upper branches of a gigantic poplar, one of the last of its kind to thrive this deep within Dhutanga.

  In the soft light of a setting sun, Torg dismounted. The air was still, but the forest was anything but peaceful. The humming shook the largest trees, causing the leaves to dance and hurting even a wizard’s ears. Less than a league distant, Torg saw the first of the approaching druids, and not long after, the monstrous incarnation of Urbana. Torg sensed the vampire’s newly acquired power, fueled by the psychic will of the druid queen. The border of the massive army passed within three hundred cubits of where he and the eagle crouched, but if any noticed their presence, they made no sign.

  Soon after, Sakuna and Torg flew farther westward and then veered south, zooming past the druid army with ease. Then the eagle alighted again on a high branch and transformed back to Jord. The white-haired woman pointed down into a hollow that lay below. A pair of figures struggled up its side, one tall and dark, the other less than half its size but glowing like phosphorus. Torg could hear their conversation clearly.

  “Is there a flat piece of land anywhere in this demon-cursed forest?” said the larger figure. “Up and down. Up and down.”

  “I would think an experienced woodsman like you wouldn’t complain so much,” said the smaller of the two.

  “I’m not complaining. I’m just stating facts.”

  “You seem to enjoy stating the same facts over and over.”

  “Hmmph!”

  Rathburt, my friend! “I can’t speak to him, even for a moment?” Torg said to Jord.

  “I would recommend against it.”

  Torg sighed. “Does Peta know I’m here?”

  “You know her better than I. What do you think?”

  “For some reason, I don’t believe she does.”

  “Why would that be?”

  “Karma has rarely been so vigorous. I’m not sure even the ghost-child can keep up with it anymore.”

  Jord’s face grew alarmed. “It’s time we go,” she said, her green eyes luminescent.

  Down below, Rathburt’s voice raised another octave. “My feet hurt!”

  “You’re a Death-Knower. You’re beyond pain.”

  “I’m Rathburt, not The Torgon.”

  Torg chuckled.

  “It’s time we go,” Jord repeated with urgency.

  “Very well.” Then he waved at his friend, who continued to struggle up the steep slope. “Goodbye, Rathburt. I hope when I see you again, this nightmare will be over.”

  WHEN TORG AND Bhojja approached, Laylah’s heart did a dance in her chest. It had been a restless wait for her and the others. Wagons had passed between the ranks bearing water and grain for the horses, wine and cheese for the riders. Ugga and Bard drank so much, they became sleepy, but Elu paced ceaselessly, wearing a tiny trench in the grass.

  “How long has it been?” he said to Laylah. “When will he be back?” he said to Ugga. “Are you sure it was safe to send him?” he said to Rajinii.

  “Not very long.”

  “Master Hah-nah will be back soon.”

  “He wasn’t sent. As if anyone could send him.”

  Finally a Tugar named Ukkutīka, the senior warrior at Jivita, approached the Svakaran and knelt before him. “Have no fear, Nibbhayo Yuddhako (Brave Warrior),” the Tugar said. “The Torgon is in no danger. Do not waste your energy on worthless movement. Instead, watch your inhalations and exhalations with mindful concentration. It will calm you.”

  After that, Elu became more relaxed.

  When Torg and Bhojja appeared, they were met with an explosion of cheering, sword clattering, and arrow tapping. Even the destriers nickered in delight, though more for Bhojja’s benefit than the wizard’s.

  Elu started to run toward the open plain, but Ugga scooped him up in his massive arms. “Careful, little guy! Do ya want to get trampled?”

  Laylah leaped onto Izumo’s back and was the first to greet Torg, their horses side by side.

  “It’s wonderful to see you again, my love,” the wizard said.

  She kissed him, rather than speak.

  Navarese, anxious for news, was the next to approach.

  “How close? How many? Are Lucius and the Daasa in position?”

  “The druids will reach the border of Dhutanga a few breaths after dusk,” Torg said. “As I estimated, there are five thousand score. And yes, Lucius and the Daasa are where they should be. But there is an unexpected danger.”

  “I don’t like the sound of this,” the general said.

  “As you should not.”

  Torg described the new incarnation of Urbana, causing Laylah to shudder. “She was horrible enough before,” Laylah said.

  The Svakaran perked up when he heard mention of the vampire. “Elu killed the vampire lady with this blade,” he said, displaying the Tugarian dagger.

  “I thought so too,” Torg said. “The druid queen must have revived her. Kattham’s will is formidable and now will be even more powerfully focused.”

  He turned to Laylah. “The vampire is full of hatred.”

  “I’m not afraid,” Laylah said.

  “Do not say those words until you see what she has become,” Torg said sternly, but then his expression softened. “You and I will face her together.”

  “Don’t forget me,” Rajinii said. “The vampire and her horde will assault my lands. I’m not helpless to defend them.”

  “None of you need fear,” the Svakaran said in a squeaky voice. “Elu will slay her—again.”

  For the last time in a long while, there was laughter aplenty.

  Above it all, Ugga could be heard shouting, “I just loves that little guy!”

  AT THAT MOMENT, Urbana was laughing too, though cackling was a more accurate description of her mirth. Soon she and her army would reach the southern border of Dhutanga, and before midnight, the great battle would begin. Her staff had been carved from the black heartwood of a Dhutangan tree, but the glowing jewel on its head had come from the tail of a great dragon, and more recently from the pommel of a magnificent sword. Paramita, the sword had been called, and The Torgon had once wielded it. The irony was not lost on the vampire. A piece of the weapon that had slain Kattham’s mother now would be used to destroy her ancient enemies.

  2

  SINCE DONNING THE ring the previous night, Yama-Utu had not spoken. With trepidation, Kusala had watched as Utu ascended the narrow stair from the inner chambers. A milky glow of blinding intensity emanated from his right hand. Though it was difficult to judge the age of a snow giant, it seemed to the chieftain that Utu had grown considerably older since he and the others had last seen him. Rather than appearing ready and able to defeat Mala, he seemed feeble and unenthusiastic. To make matters worse, the snow giant reeked of charred fle
sh, much like Mala.

  “How are you, my friend?” Kusala asked timidly.

  Utu smiled but did not otherwise respond.

  “He is as he should be,” Henepola said. “However, I must warn the rest of you to avoid physical contact with the snow giant. The ring will infect anyone he touches.”

  Kusala didn’t like the sound of that. But the king would say no more, and Utu seemed unwilling or unable to elaborate. Afterward they returned to the first wall. During the walk back, nary a word was said. Even Madiraa, who usually was cheerful and talkative, seemed depressed. Kusala began to feel as if he were part of a death march.

  “Which perhaps I am,” he remembered thinking.

  Now, as dawn crept upon them like an enemy from the east, Kusala again stood on the battlement of Balak and stared out at the Gray Plains. Mala and the other monsters, some two thousand score, were jammed into a surprisingly small area fronting the first gate. But the golden soldiers remained in their bizarre circle, standing side by side like children holding hands. As far as Kusala knew, they had not moved from this position since noon of the previous day. Even more puzzling, there were reports that the newborns were receiving no food and little water, as if Mala were using starvation and thirst to defeat his own army. To Kusala, it made no sense—but what really did these days?

  Black knights had brought armor for the king, conjurer, and princess, and they had donned it in view of all. Henepola and Indajaala wielded their Maōi staffs, while Madiraa bore only a long sword of exquisite make. Including Indajaala, a slew of conjurers were stationed nearby, each eerily resembling both the king and his assistant, their long white hair flowing from beneath their helms. Most of the Tugars also were in attendance, including the Asēkhas, though they disdained armor in favor of black cloth. All told, more than thirty thousand manned the battlement of Balak, while fifteen thousand remained on Ott and five thousand on Hakam, keeping fresh defenders in reserve.