Torn By War: 4 (The Death Wizard Chronicles)

by Melvin, Jim

  To her right was a miniature mountain of druids, with Torg trapped at the bottom. Tugars and Daasa were all around it, dragging the wood-eaters off, but every one they disentangled was replaced by two more. Laylah realized with horror that they were trying to smother the wizard, forcing her to turn her attention away from Urbana.

  “Get back! All of you . . . back!” she shouted at the Tugars and Daasa, and they obeyed as they would their queen. When there was sufficient clearance she cast the head of the ivory staff at the druids, hurling a wavering blob of explosive magic. Several dozen druids were blown apart, lightening the load enough for Torg to wiggle free, rising from the rubble like a corpse from the grave.

  Even as Laylah was letting out a cry of triumph, a hand strong enough to crack the trunk of a tree closed around her neck while the other swatted Obhasa from her grasp. As she was lifted into the air, her feet dangling off the ground, she could feel the vampire’s hot breath on her back. The monster bent her elongated neck over the top of Laylah’s head and curled around to look into her eyes. The mouth opened wide.

  “Noooooo!” she heard Torg shout, but then she felt a rush of wind, and a shadow descended from the sky. Talons as thick as Laylah’s arms wrapped around Urbana’s neck and tore off the third head. Laylah was cast forward, rolling on the grass before coming to rest at Torg’s feet.

  Laylah turned back and saw Lucius, once again transformed, and Ugga astride the fallen monster. The firstborn was pounding his war club against Urbana’s back while Ugga had wrapped one of his thick arms around the flopping neck.

  “Ya hurt me Bard!” the crossbreed screamed, tears raging down his cheeks and into his beard. Then he shoved the sundered portion of the black staff that contained the dragon jewel down Urbana’s severed throat. Almost instantly, Laylah felt an explosion so violent it forced her to cover her eyes. Chunks of putrid flesh rained down upon her.

  When she wiped her face and cleared her vision, Ugga lay motionless on his back while Lucius was on his knees, moaning, his stone war club shattered.

  The mountain eagle landed next to Ugga and transformed back to Jord. The Faerie knelt near the crossbreed and rested the side of her head on his thick chest. Then she rose and smiled. Meanwhile, Torg rushed over to Lucius and helped him stand. Laylah was amazed to see that—in his transformed state—the firstborn was more than a cubit taller than the wizard.

  “Bon-nee . . .” he said in a raspy voice. “Help . . . Bon-nee.”

  But now Ugga was conscious again, and he sat up and screamed, “Bard’s hurt too. Ya got to help him first!”

  “I will go to Bard,” Jord said to Ugga.

  The battle continued all around them, but now that Urbana was destroyed, the druids seemed to have lost some of their focus. The Tugars and Daasa fought side by side, forcing the wood-eaters back. Laylah scooped up Obhasa and rushed over to Torg and the firstborn.

  “Lucius, where is she? Lead us to Bonny.”

  They followed him to a crumpled form, encircled by at least a hundred Daasa. This figure was smaller than before. Now unconscious, Bonny had transformed unknowingly to her ordinary state, lying naked in the grass. Torg rolled her onto her back and pressed his head against her bloody chest. Laylah saw deep gashes on Bonny’s face and beneath her small breasts. Lucius knelt beside her and shrank back to normal, naked and shivering.

  “Do you trust me, Lucius?” Torg said in a steady voice.

  “What . . .?”

  “Do you trust me?”

  “I . . . uh . . . yes.”

  Torg lifted the Silver Sword and ran the ultra-sharp blade against his own thick wrist. Red blood gushed out. He did the same to Bonny’s slim wrist and then pressed them together. At first nothing happened, but then the pirate woman quivered. Soon after, her wounds began to ooze fresh blood.

  “Quickly, give me Obhasa!” Torg said to Laylah. And then he ran the head of the staff along Bonny’s injuries, cauterizing them and then his own wrist. Bonny’s quivering ceased, and she fell into what appeared to be a steady slumber.

  “Will she . . . ?” Lucius said.

  “She will live,” Torg said. “At least, she will live if we can figure out a way to destroy the rest of these druids.”

  “Thank you . . .”

  Lucius took Bonny in his arms, tears coursing down his cheeks. Laylah smiled with relief, but then an anguished scream tore through the night. The wizard and sorceress rushed over to Ugga and Jord. The crossbreed was cradling his friend and sobbing hysterically. It was apparent that Bard wasn’t sleeping. His eyes were wide open—and lifeless.

  “He was gone before I reached him,” Jord said. “It was foretold.”

  “Help him, Master Hah-nah!” Ugga begged. “Ya can save him.”

  Torg pressed the side of his face against Bard’s chest. When he rose, his expression was grim. “As Jord says, it’s too late. Healing cannot take place after death has occurred. The karma exits and does not return. I’m so sorry, Ugga. For what it’s worth, I loved Bard too.”

  Ugga wailed like a wounded animal.

  FROM THE TALL platform more than a league from where Urbana stood, General Navarese heard the monster’s scream. The darkness shrouded his view of the plains, but there was enough torchlight for him to recognize that the druids suddenly were becoming disorganized. Not long after, scouts approached him with news that confirmed his suspicions. In response, the general lifted a large canvas sack and removed a metal horn with a bell as broad as his chest. If he sounded it, the formations would break apart and attack the druids all at once. Discipline would give way to frenzy. Navarese hated to do it—to him, it felt like weakness. But he also believed that he owed it to Torg and the Tugars to lend them as much support as his army could provide.

  “Wait!” came a voice from close behind. Navarese turned and gasped. Supported by Manta on one arm and her staff on the other, Rajinii stood just a pace away. Elu hovered a few steps behind.

  “Allow me to sound the horn, general.” Then she added, “Please. It is the least I can do.”

  “Of course, your highness.”

  Rajinii took the horn, brought it to her lips, and blew. A note as loud as a trumpeting mammoth bathed the fields. Cheering could be heard from all directions, and then a mass of mounted horsemen pressed forward, joined by the infantry.

  “I approve,” Rajinii said to Navarese. But then she added, “I appear to have been removed from the front lines.”

  “You suffered an injury . . .” Navarese said.

  The queen interrupted. “I’m more aware of what happened than you might imagine, general. I’ve seen in person what The Torgon can do. And my memory is better than yours.”

  Navarese did not comprehend her meaning.

  THE BATTLE RAGED throughout the night. The druids were assailed from without and within. With some of the Daasa forming a protective barrier, Lucius lifted Bonny and carried her to the medical tents far to the rear. Torg had mended her wounds. Simple rest would complete the cure.

  When Lucius was confident that Bonny was safe, he covered his nakedness with a long tunic and left the tent to lead the Daasa back into battle. He was met by Navarese on the way out.

  “Will Bonny Calico be all right?” the general said, with sincere tenderness.

  “It appears so,” Lucius said wearily.

  Now it was nearly dawn. The Daasa, reverted to their gentle selves, surrounded Bonny’s tent. Lucius guessed there were fewer than a thousand. Navarese placed his hand on Lucius’ shoulder.

  “It’s not as bad as it looks. Soon after you went into the tent to be with Bonny, most of the Daasa returned to the battlefield. Without them and the Tugars, we would have been hard-pressed to defeat the druids, even after the great monster was vanquished.”

  “I was about to rejoin the battle myself.”

  “You are no longer needed, my friend . . . at least against the druids. Please come with me, and I’ll show you why.”

  After mounting the platform, Lucius could
see for at least a league in the dim light. Torg, Laylah, Rajinii, and the Tugars were slaying the remaining large druids. Mounted archers focused on the smaller ones. As far as the Lucius could tell, fewer than five thousand of the wood-eaters remained alive.

  “Our casualties?” Lucius said.

  “As for the Jivitans, fewer fell than survived, but our losses were great—more than twenty thousand is my guess, and at least that many destriers. Of the Daasa, more than five thousand still roam the plains, not including the ones that remain by Bonny’s bedside. But that leaves four thousand dead.”

  Lucius lowered his head, but a part of him knew that it could have been even worse.

  “I’m sorry,” Navarese said.

  Lucius nodded. “And the Tugars?”

  “Amazingly, I have heard no reports of casualties.”

  “How is that possible?” Lucius mused. Then he added, “If only their numbers were greater . . .”

  “Indeed.”

  “We lost Bard,” Lucius said. “Was his body recovered?”

  “Your companion lies in state within one of the large pavilions near the city. HThe crossbreed has not left his side.”

  “I should go to them now.”

  “I’ll lead the way.”

  The generals passed dozens of open pavilions, each containing scores of bodies covered by canvas sheets. Lucius heard Ugga before he saw him, his sobs smiting his heart. Lucius approached timidly. A sweaty, exhausted clergyman stood nearby, attempting to speak comforting words to the crossbreed.

  “My son,” the man was saying, “your companion is in a better place. He resides in a palace prepared by Ekadeva, and one day you will join him there and live together in eternal bliss.”

  “Me Bard . . . me Bard . . . me Bard,” was all Ugga could say, kneeling beside the woodsman’s prone body and stroking his lifeless arm.

  Lucius found that he had no words. All he could think to say was, “Hello.”

  The crossbreed looked up, his small eyes bloodshot. “Master Loo-shus . . . me Bard . . . is dead . . .”

  Lucius knelt beside him. “I’m so sorry . . . I loved him too. We all did.”

  Ugga cast himself onto the woodsman’s chest and continued to sob. “Me Bard . . . me Bard . . . me friend.”

  AS THE SUN ROSE bright and hot on a clear morning, Torg and Laylah came together on the Green Plains north of Jivita. Rajinii, Sir Elu, Captain Julich, and two thousand Tugars joined Torg and Laylah. Several thousand Daasa also milled about, most already returned to their “nicey” state. No druids remained standing. A scant few had escaped into Dhutanga, but not enough to make much of a difference. It would take Kattham Bhunjaka centuries to rebuild such an army. The white horsemen planned to hunt her down before she had the chance, but they could not do that until they had dealt with Mala.

  Except for their tattered clothing, Torg and the Tugars appeared unscathed. Laylah also was unhurt, though her white armor was gashed and dented. But the rest among them bore multiple wounds. Rajinii’s nose was swollen, her hair filthy, and her armor scarred in numerous places. Druid sputum had scorched Elu’s breastplate, revealing portions of his muscled chest. Julich’s left arm hung lifeless, broken in several places, and even the “nicey” Daasa were cut and bleeding, their blood pink.

  “You saved my life,” were Rajinii’s first words to Torg.

  “There were many who rescued you from the druids. I played but a minor role.”

  “You know what I mean,” the queen said. “I was trying to get myself killed, and you would not allow it.”

  Torg smiled. “What now, your highness?”

  “Now? We prepare for Mala . . .” Then the queen rode close to Torg and leaned toward him. “Torgon . . .” Rajinii said.

  “Your highness?”

  “When you removed Invictus’ poisons from my body, you failed to eliminate all my pain.”

  “I know.”

  “I love you,” the queen said.

  “I know that too.”

  “But this lady”—Rajinii gestured toward Laylah—“loves you even more.”

  “There are few like him,” Laylah said to the queen. “He is difficult not to love.”

  “Elu loves him,” the Svakaran chirped.

  Rajinii laughed. “You and I will have to be satisfied with only his friendship, I’m afraid.”

  Torg grasped the queen’s gauntleted hand. “As I’ve said before, my preference for Laylah has nothing to do with any lacking in you.”

  The queen smiled. “Of course not . . . only our spiritual beliefs have kept us apart.” Then she laughed again. When she next spoke, her voice was as loud as the horn she had sounded earlier that day. “White horsemen, the druids are defeated. Let us rejoice in victory! And rejoice also for our fallen, who now reside in a better place than this.”

  Torg leaned down and whispered in Bhojja’s perked ear. “Better?”

  The mare nickered.

  But gave no other answer.

  2

  WHEN THE GOLDEN soldier died, Kusala wasn’t surprised. The newborn’s face was grotesquely swollen, making it obvious that he had been close to death even before Mala heaved him skyward, though why he had been so cruelly tortured was beyond Kusala’s comprehension.

  When Bhayatupa had appeared in the skies over the fortress, Kusala was surprised. Though he had lived long in the world, he had never before seen a great dragon up close. Far worse was the sight of Invictus riding on his neck. Not until the dragon soared out of his vision to the east did Kusala feel able to take a full breath.

  The monsters had a different reaction, cheering with gusto. At first, Mala had appeared to be in terrible pain, but then he also had cheered. The spirit of the fortress deflated even further.

  Kusala decided to do something about it. Leaping upon a merlon, he turned toward the interior of the castle and let out a screech so high-pitched it was barely audible. The desert warriors also screeched, and the black knights joined them, screaming, hollering, and clanging their swords. The monsters went quiet. Mala’s army was greater in number and strength, but it was not as great in courage.

  When the clamor died down, King Henepola looked at Kusala and smiled. “Well done, chieftain.”

  “Agreed!” Madiraa said.

  Kusala hopped off the merlon and faced them both. “It was a small gesture, at best.”

  Indajaala remained kneeling by the golden soldier. The conjurer had removed one of his own gauntlets and was running his fingertips along the newborn’s breastplate.

  “See how pliable it has become,” Indajaala said in a puzzled tone. “The heat is causing it to soften.”

  Henepola knelt down and also touched the golden metal. “What good is armor if it weakens thus?”

  “Which makes it even more senseless for the sorcerer to tamper with the weather,” Madiraa said.

  “This heat tortures my flesh like fire,” Utu said, “but I am unused to warmth of any kind.”

  “Sire,” Commander Palak interrupted. “There is movement on the field!”

  It appeared the long-dreaded assault was about to begin.

  FIFTY TREBUCHETS were on Balak and one hundred more on Ott, each capable of hurling flaming balls of pitch and other missiles more than one thousand cubits. For now, the interior border of Mala’s army remained just beyond their range, while the circle of golden soldiers was well beyond. The monsters, forty thousand strong, gathered in the fields outside Balak’s gate, except for the Mogols and wolves, who rode all about, making sure that none of the tormented newborns entertained thoughts of desertion.

  Mala was elated and bemused. The surprise appearance of Bhayatupa had stunned him, especially when he had seen Invictus upon the dragon’s neck. His own chain had flared in response, increasing the usual pain enough to drop him to his knees. But the physical agony hadn’t been as bad as the jealousy. Had Invictus chosen another favorite pet? Mala couldn’t help but notice that the chain upon the dragon’s neck was more beautiful than his own
.

  Still, he had no time for self-pity. Instead of begging for mercy, the white-haired king and his bony band of followers had dared to insult him. Oh, how they would regret their insolence. Invictus was the most powerful being in the world, of that there was no doubt, but Mala was next in line. If his enemies doubted it now, they wouldn’t by the end of this day. Did the scrawny fools have any idea of the extent of his might?

  Mala’s plan to topple Nissaya contained several phases. He had no siege machines, trebuchets, or catapults. Nor could he scale the walls with ladders; they were too tall and well-protected. It also was impossible to tunnel beneath them; the bedrock of Nissaya was impenetrable. The fortress could not be assailed by ordinary means, even by an army ten times the size of the one he commanded. But Mala had never planned to use ordinary means.

  “THE STONE-EATERS are moving to the front,” Churikā said to Kusala.

  “They appear to be forming a line just out of range of fire,” Kusala agreed.

  “What can they do from there?” Henepola said.

  “Several of the Mogols have presented Yama-Deva . . . Mala . . . a pouch of some sort,” Utu said. “It appears quite heavy.”

  “What’s he doing with the pouch?” Kusala said.

  “He is removing objects—black and shiny—and placing a dozen or more at the feet of each Stone-Eater.”

  “I see them too,” Kusala said. “But what are they?”

  “Obsidian,” Henepola said.

  “It could be,” Utu said. Then, “Yes . . .”

  “What does that mean, Father?” Madiraa said.

  “The Stone-Eaters derive their powers from ingesting obsidian,” the king said. “But I still don’t understand what good this will do them now. They are strong already. Why do they need additional sustenance?”