by Melvin, Jim
Churikā nestled up to Kusala and whispered in his ear. Since making love, the pair had spoken little, as if embarrassed to be in each other’s presence. But Kusala knew that it had little to do with shame. Both had been too busy preparing for the battle to indulge in further frivolities.
“He hasn’t moved or even opened his eyes since he sat down,” the young Asēkha said to her chieftain, gesturing toward the snow giant, whom she continued to distrust. “It’s as if he’s attempting a Death Visit.”
“We are not to touch him, under orders from the king.”
“And you think I want to? Chieftain, you underestimate me.”
“Never.”
Churikā smiled. “Why, Kusala . . . that is the nicest thing you’ve ever said to me.”
“Proof, only, that you’re young.” But he smiled too.
Then Churikā’s mirth faltered. “Dalhapa came to me today . . . with news.”
“Yes?”
“She has ascended to Asēkha.”
Kusala’s eyes went wide. “Obviously none in Nissaya have fallen. That leaves only Rati, Dvipa . . . and Tāseti.”
“I’m sorry, chieftain. Dalhapa does not know which of them is no longer, only that an event has occurred.”
Kusala fought back tears.
“Nowhere are we safe,” he finally said.
AS THE EARLY morning darkness slinked away, Balak’s battlement bustled. Thousands of lightly armored bowmen took their positions along the crenulated parapet, interspersed with heavily armored swordsmen. The trebuchets were manned and loaded with granite balls coated with a magically concocted pitch that would explode on contact. Heavy vats filled with acidic oils were stationed every ten cubits along the battlement. The oils would not harm the black granite, but flesh was another matter. And they left a slippery mess at the exterior base of the wall that even monsters would find difficult to traverse.
When the sun finally showed its face, heat billowed over the fortress. Even Kusala gasped and turned aside his face, as if a god with a hand of fire had slapped him. This was more than just unseasonable warmth. Sorcery was involved on a scale beyond comprehension. Invictus had the might to control the weather. Was there nothing he could not accomplish? It was demoralizing, to say the least.
Podhana approached Kusala next.
“Chieftain, I have urgent news,” the Asēkha said. “King Henepola should also hear this.”
“I am present,” the king said. “Speak.”
Podhana glanced at Kusala, who nodded ever so slightly.
“We all know that without the aid of the eagles, there has been little communication between Jivita and Nissaya,” the Asēkha said. “Even pigeons trained by Tugars have not been able to find their way safely between the cities. But just a moment ago, a bird I raised myself was able to return from Jivita. And it carried dire news. Yesterday morn, the druids were massing near the southern border of Dhutanga, and it was believed that they would assail the Jivitans before last midnight.”
“One way or the other, it might already be over,” Kusala said.
“May God’s glory be with them,” Henepola said. A long period of silence followed. “But we can do nothing for Jivita. We have enough to worry about here.” Then the king turned to Kusala. “Have you ever felt such heat?”
“Only during Majjhe Ghamme (midsummer) on the dunes of Tējo. Midspring in the Gap of Gati? Never.”
“And it is only the break of dawn. What does the sorcerer hope to accomplish with this devilry?”
“I do not comprehend how it might benefit Mala’s army,” Kusala said. “If anything, it harms them more than us. The fortress provides shade and a ready source of water. The fields outside its walls have little of either. If my eyes do not betray me, a number of golden soldiers have already collapsed.”
“I have seen at least a dozen hauled away by Mogols,” Churikā said.
Captain Palak joined the discourse. “Not even Mala is stupid enough to destroy his own army,” the senior commander said. “There is a method to his madness—of that we can be certain.”
“Perhaps our questions will soon be answered,” the king said. “Behold! Mala approaches.”
At those words, Utu’s eyes sprang open.
WHEN A MOGOL passed out of earshot, the golden soldier resumed his litany.
“They’re trying to cook us; that’s what they’re doing. Bake us nice and juicy so that Mala and his monsters can have a royal feast.”
“Don’t be ridiculous,” said the man on his right. “They wouldn’t have wasted all this time training us to fight, if our only function was to be their dinner.”
“The only thing they trained me to do was to put on my armor and march—this way, that way, every way,” the whiner said. “All I got out of it was a pair of stout legs.”
“Keep your mouth shut, will ya?” said the man on his left. “You’re just making it worse. Soon it’ll be clear enough what the bosses are up to. Moaning about it won’t speed nothing up.”
“I’m thirsty!” Whiner said. “It’s going on two days since I’ve had a sip of water, much less something to eat. As if that’s not bad enough, it’s so hot I can barely breathe. And here we are, standing around in enough armor to roast a boar. I’m getting dizzy, I tell you! I could barely fight a baby, much less one of them nasty black knights.”
“You’ve always been a baby,” Right said.
“Aren’t you thirsty?”
“I haven’t pissed in a week, but thirsty’s better than dead.”
“Pretty soon, there ain’t going to be no difference.”
“Damn right!” Left said. “Because I’m going to kill you myself.”
“Look over there,” Whiner said, ignoring the threat. “Here’s more proof Mala couldn’t care less about us. There he goes up toward the gate to have a parley with the black king. They’ll probably talk for half the day—and in the meantime, he’ll leave us standing here like fools.”
“Don’t be stupid,” Right said. “Soon as they have their talk, then the real fighting will start—and when we take the fortress, we can go get us as much food, water, and wine as we could ever want.”
“That’s what I’m thinking too,” Left said.
“All I know is, I don’t feel so good,” Whiner said. “My face is hot, and everything’s getting blurry. We’ve been standing in this damnable ringlet all day and night. I think I’m going to faint. Maybe even die. Dying’s sounding better all the time.”
“Don’t hang around on our account,” Right said. “There’ll be more for us after you’re no longer.”
Whiner didn’t die, but his lips swelled up so much he lost the ability to speak.
FINALLY . . . FINALLY . . . things were going to get fun. Mala had been waiting for this moment for two decades. The titanic blast from the horn still puzzled him, but even that mystery would soon be put to rest. And if not, who cared? The fortress would fall, regardless.
Mala’s entourage included Harīti the Kojin, Wyvern-Abhinno the Warlish witch, Bunjako the Stone-Eater, and Augustus the golden soldier, the last of whom staggered exhaustedly behind the others. Fifty Mogols on black wolves encircled them. When they came within one hundred paces of the first gate, Mala called a halt.
Mala’s heart pounded within his chest. Poisons dripped from his fangs, sizzling on the gravel road at his feet. Carūūl seared his left middle finger, and Vikubbati burned the palm of his right hand. These two agonies, combined with the constant pain from his golden chain, helped to calm him and bring things back into proper perspective. He stared up at the crowded battlement of Balak. When he spoke, his voice could be heard throughout the fortress.
“Keepers of Nissaya, I demand to speak to your king!”
At first this was met by silence, but then Henepola appeared above the gate, bearing his own staff.
“Your demands mean nothing, Andhabaala (Fool of fools),” the king responded, and though his voice was not as loud as Mala’s, it still could be heard for a
great distance. “But the rules of parley require that I listen to your words, at least until they offend me.”
At that, Harīti pounded her chest with her six boulder-sized fists.
“Soon there will be only one set of rules . . . my rules,” Mala growled.
Wyvern, in her hideous state, cackled.
This did not dismay Henepola. “Already you overstep your bounds. But that does not surprise me.”
The Stone-Eater growled, spewing smoke from his nostrils.
“How bold you are . . . for such a little man!” Mala said to the king. “Do you not desire mercy for yourself and your people? If so, you will speak to me with respect.”
Henepola stood resolute, his white hair flowing regally in a suddenly fierce breeze.
“As for mercy, how can I desire something that is beyond you? As for respect, I give that only to those who have earned it.”
The Kojin squealed so loud, those nearby had to hold their ears. Even Mala lost his temper, pounding the tail of his trident onto the gravel road.
“You bastard! You . . . you . . . ass!” Mala screamed. “How dare you! Invictus has already exposed you as a weakling. And yet you speak to me like this? You should be kneeling before me . . . begging!”
“Correct me if I’m wrong,” the king said calmly, “but I am the one standing on top of Balak while you are the one at its feet. Who is the beggar?”
At this, Harīti leapt about like a Dhutangan ape, and Wyvern transformed back and forth between beautiful and hideous. Even the Mogols and wolves, ancient enemies of Nissaya, got into the act, hooting and howling. Globs of golden fire spewed from Mala’s chain, sizzling on the ground. The golden soldier who huddled behind him danced away and then fell flat on his back, banging his helm on the surface of the road.
“You . . . you . . . son of a . . . a . . . whore!” Mala shouted, ignoring all else but his own anger. “You will suffer for this . . . this . . . insolence! Do you think just your death will satisfy me? There are far worse things, I assure you.”
Throughout the tirade, Henepola remained calm. As he was about to respond again, an enormous figure rose up beside him and leaned out over the parapet.
WHEN YAMA-UTU heard King Henepola announce Mala’s approach, his introspection was broken. Never before had he experienced such intense alarm, not even when he had left the berm and begun his slaughter of the Warlish witches near Lake Ti-ratana. Mala approaches! Utu had waited more than three decades for this moment—and a part of him, he just then realized, had believed it would never occur.
But because of the ring, everything was different. His motivation to destroy the being that inhabited his brother’s body had been . . . dampened. Purity was a state all its own, caring naught for violence or vengeance. Utu felt his resolve wavering, and it was taking supreme concentration to maintain a desire to slay Mala. After all, what purpose did it serve? Perhaps his wife, Yama-Bhari, was right. The words she had spoken to Jord on the icy peaks of Okkanti replayed in his mind.
“You do not comprehend us . . . Violence is not in our nature; we are not capable of it. Nothing can result from violence but more violence. If you are asking us to fight on your behalf, then our answer is no . . . Of all our kind, only Yama-Deva strayed from the peaks, and even he never left the foothills—until the day he was stolen from us forever.”
Stolen from us forever.
When Utu leaned over the parapet, he was horrified—and for the time being, Bhari’s whisperings were quieted. At that terrible moment, Utu witnessed firsthand the ruination of Yama-Deva. His lovely brother—once the greatest snow giant ever to exist—had become more hideous than a devil and more ridiculous than a buffoon. But that was not the worst of it. What troubled Utu far more intensely was that he still could recognize aspects of Deva: the shape of his brow, the silkiness of his mane, the square set of his shoulders. It was heart-rending. And maddening.
Stolen from us forever?
Perhaps. But shouldn’t the snow giants avenge this theft?
“You . . . you . . . son of a . . . a . . . whore!” the blasphemy that had formerly been his brother shouted. “You will suffer for this . . . this . . . insolence, little man! Do you think that just your death will satisfy me? There are far worse things, I assure you!”
Utu took a deep breath, and then spoke. “You and I both know . . . all too well . . . that there are far worse things than death, my brother.”
THESE WORDS SHOOK Mala. The eerily familiar timbre of the voice from above staggered his resolve, making him feel dizzy and unsure. My brother. How peculiar hearing this made him feel, as if the forgotten past had come to pay a surprise visit.
Mala found himself looking around for Invictus. The sorcerer would help him to eliminate these strange feelings. But then he chided himself silently and regained a bit of his swagger. “You sounded the horn,” Mala said, gripping the shaft of the trident with ferocity.
“Yes, my brother.”
“Why do you call me brother, old fool?”
“You no longer know me, but I know you. We have loved each other for millennia. The hatred you hold so dear is only a recent thing, after all.”
As usual, Mala’s ire got the best of him.
“You ramble, old fool . . . I don’t know you. But I know well the rabble at your side. And soon I will teach you all a lesson.”
“Now . . . do it now. You’ll never have a better chance!” Mala heard a man shout, recognizing the annoying Asēkha chieftain from Dibbu-Loka.
“Hush,” the pathetic king said. “Only the snow giant will know when the time is right.”
Now, sensing a threat, Harīti and Wyvern stepped in front of Mala. But he paid them no heed, continuing to stare upward at the battlement, his expression perplexed.
“What are you little rats up to, anyway? Tell me quickly, before my patience withers.”
“You no longer know me, but I know you,” the familiar voice repeated. “You are Yama-Deva . . . my eldest brother. I am Yama-Utu—and I love you.”
“Shut up, you ass!” Mala shouted at the apparition. “The last person who dared call me by that name was made to suffer. Do not use it in my presence again . . . or I will see to it that you also pay the price.”
“What suffering can you bestow upon me that I have not already endured? The one I admired most in the world . . . ruined. But I have come to rescue you, my brother. If you will allow me to enter your heart, all will be well. If not, I will have no choice but to force my healing upon you.”
The weight of the words caused Mala to wobble. If not for the support of the trident, he would have fallen. But it was Carūūl that truly saved him. As if sensing a threat from the power emanating from above, the ring blazed to life, searing Mala’s left middle finger. The pain shattered whatever temporary sway Utu had achieved. Once again, Mala’s voice boomed for leagues.
“Listen to me now, you slimy worms! Surrender was your only option, the only path to mercy. But instead of showing me the respect I deserve, you hurl insults. For that, all will suffer.”
And then he turned and stomped away, but not before almost tripping over the fallen soldier, who remained prone on the gravel road.
In yet another fit of rage, Mala reached down, lifted the soldier in one hand, and heaved him toward the fortress. It was an astonishing feat of strength. The large man soared high into the air and then somersaulted several times before clearing the towering battlement. He would have plunged into the moat on the other side had Utu not reached up and snatched him.
EVEN BEFORE THE march toward Nissaya had begun, the golden soldiers had felt the sting of deprival. At first, the rationing of food and water had been subtle, explained away as a symptom of war. However, soon after they left Avici the reduction of allocations worsened, though only for the newborns, not the monsters. At each camp, food was plentiful: goats, venison, fowl, boars, and even human slaves, all slaughtered and eaten, mostly raw. There was water and wine too, though many of the monsters tended to disda
in anything except bloody flesh.
Regardless, the golden soldiers were given little: a sip of water here, a scrap of meat there. What few provisions came their way could not have sustained sixteen thousand, much less one hundred and sixty thousand.
“Why?” Augustus continually asked himself. It wasn’t like their army was poorly financed or ill-equipped. Mala had planned the assault on Nissaya for years, and Invictus had the wealth and influence to outfit an army many times this size; but for reasons the second in command could not fathom, the golden soldiers were being starved.
“Second in command,” he often whispered to himself. “That’s a joke. Not a single monster would do my bidding. I’m a figurehead, if even that. I despise Mala and he despises me—but he holds all the cards.”
When they finally reached Nissaya, many of the golden soldiers could barely walk. To make matters worse, Mala ordered them to form a ridiculous ringlet around the immense stone mountain upon which the fortress perched. Did the Chain Man expect the black knights to sneak out the back door and make a run for it? And even if that absurd event were to occur, the soldiers would be too thinly spread to stop them—and too weak with thirst and starvation to even try. All through the day and night, they were forced to stand in the horrendous heat, until a few actually began to drop dead, though not in sufficient numbers to make much of a difference . . . yet.
Augustus was surprised when a Mogol rode over to him on a wolf and told him to join the parley. Maybe things were about to change. At least, when Nissaya was overrun there might be food and drink to be salvaged within its walls, though how Mala believed he could defeat the fortress that stood before them also was beyond the newborn general’s comprehension. Perhaps the Chain Man had the power to batter down the bulwarks with his bare hands. Who knew anymore?
As it turned out, the parley didn’t go well. Fearing Mala’s anger, Augustus tried to back away, but one of his sollerets caught on a rock, causing him to trip. The back of his helm struck the ground with a whump! Though he was not seriously injured, he temporarily lost consciousness, more from overall exhaustion than from the force of the blow. Just as he was regaining his bearings, the Chain Man picked him up in one hand and hurled him toward Balak, armor and all, as if he weighed little more than a pebble.