Torn By War: 4 (The Death Wizard Chronicles)

by Melvin, Jim

  “It was not the conjurerssss,” said another witch, in her hideous state, standing next to Wyvern. “It was your brother, Yama-Utu. He also bearssss great magic.”

  Wyvern and Gruugash gasped and stepped back just in time to get out of Mala’s way. Mala’s eyes went wild, and he pointed Vikubbati at the ugly witch and blew her to shreds with a golden blast. Then he turned on the other monsters and spoke in a voice loud enough to be heard by all. “He is not my brother . . . is that understood?”

  It was understood quite well.

  When enough time had passed, Wyvern came forward timidly. “Master, our losssses already are great. We can afford no more.”

  “Oh, shut up. We can afford whatever I say we can afford.”

  Wyvern bowed her head to conceal a snarl.

  Gruugash approached more boldly than the witch. “The snow giant, whoever he is, was indeed the cause of the collapse. At first I felt the conjurers attempt to break us, and fail. But the snow giant came next, and he wielded a power that was beyond even the Pabbajja. Among us all, General Mala, only you are the greater.”

  Mala’s face went red, but the back-handed compliment reduced his rage just enough to make him manageable. Still, he stomped around for an exceedingly long time before regaining his composure.

  “What to do? What to do?” he said. “Where’s that cowardly Augustus? I need to talk to him.”

  The Duccaritan pirate named Tew raised his hand. “Master Mala?”

  “What?”

  “You . . . uh . . . sort of . . . uh . . . heaved Augustus over the wall, sir . . .”

  “Oh . . . yeah. Right, right. Then . . . hmmm . . . how about this for brilliance? I promote you to second in command.”

  MAYNARD TEW considered himself lucky to be alive. If he had not volunteered to lead the small force of pirates that had been requested to join Mala’s army, his bones now would be rotting somewhere in the streets of Duccarita, just one more victim of the Daasa uprising everybody had been talking about. In fact, he and several hundred other volunteers—those among them in the most trouble, debt, or both—had left the city just six weeks before the butchering.

  It surely was ironic that those who had been sent to Avici still were living while the “lucky” ones back home were worm food. Actually, not even worm food; demons and ghouls from nearby Arupa-Loka were said to be taking care of the carcasses. Good for them, Tew thought. The more they eat, the less cleanup will be required. When the damnable wars were over, the pirate intended to return to Duccarita as its leader, his reward for helping the Chain Man whip the enemy.

  When Tew had dared to remind Mala of what he’d done to the golden soldier, he thought maybe the Chain Man might kill him on the spot just for daring to speak. Instead, Tew had been shocked when Mala promoted him to second in command.

  As if he weren’t sweating enough in his heavy red jacket, Tew felt new rivulets gush out of his armpits and drench his sides. Still, he found the courage to walk over to Mala, his devious mind racing this way and that in an attempt to come up with something sounding halfway smart.

  “I have thought of something,” Tew said, trying to sound bold.

  “Speak up, then!” Mala bellowed.

  Tew gulped. “Well, your original plan would’ve worked had the snow giant not messed it up. There’s a saying in Duccarita: ‘If something’s only broke a little, then you only need to fix it a little.’”

  “And?”

  “Seems to me, Master Mala, all you need do is join the magic of your trident to the homeless guys, and then there’ll be no way the snow giant can break the shield.”

  The Chain Man mulled this over. “Great idea. I want you by my side from now on.”

  “It would be my pleasure, Master Mala,” Tew said. Then he relieved himself in his pants. But he already was so drenched in sweat, no one seemed to notice.

  NOW IT WAS EARLY afternoon. The sun beat on the fortress like dragon fire. Kusala and the defenders of Nissaya hunkered down and watched as the Stone-Eaters took their original positions, apparently in preparation for another aerial bombardment.

  “It appears they will attempt the same tactic,” Henepola said. “They will drive us from the battlement above the gate. And when Utu again breaks their shield, their losses will be far heavier than ours. They lost fifty score the first time.”

  “Why repeat a failed tactic?” Palak said.

  “They will attempt to strengthen the shield,” Utu said, matter-of-factly.

  Kusala agreed. “Mala’s intelligence might be limited, but who knows the extent of his magic? If he strengthens the shield, can you break it again?”

  Utu shrugged.

  Kusala turned to Henepola. “If Utu cannot again defeat the shield, then it will be only a matter of time before Balak falls.”

  “In which case, we will raise and dissemble the drawbridges and defend the second bulwark,” Henepola said. “When the monsters attempt to cross the moat, they will suffer terribly.”

  “They might have canvas boats,” Palak offered, “but the larger monsters would be too heavy for such craft.”

  “If you so order,” Kusala said to the king, “I will send the Tugars onto the field and attempt to disrupt the Stone-Eaters.”

  “That would serve little, other than the loss of valuable lives,” Henepola said.

  “I can’t say I disagree,” Kusala said. “Then the next question becomes, how many will you leave to defend Balak if it is breached?”

  “All shall be permitted to cross over to Ott,” Henepola said.

  “What of those who arm the murder holes?” Kusala said.

  “I am able to release the contents from afar,” the king responded.

  “In that case,” Madiraa said, “if Yama-Utu cannot defeat the shield a second time, we should immediately retreat.”

  “So be it,” Henepola said.

  When the Stone-Eaters began the second assault, the defenders again fled the battlement above the gates. Mala charged forward with the Pabbajja and a thousand other monsters, and the shield was rebuilt. Only this time, the Chain Man joined his trident to the effusion.

  Almost lackadaisically, Utu touched his ring to the pale-yellow glow. The shield wobbled, but held.

  “Mala is too strong,” he finally said, backing away.

  Indajaala raced forward. “All of the conjurers are now with me on Balak. We can join our might to yours, Yama-Utu.”

  “Not even a combined effort will be sufficient,” Utu said.

  Indajaala started to protest, but the king waved him off. “Sometimes doom cannot be avoided. I trust the words of the snow giant. We must concede Balak and save our strength for Ott. Let the retreat begin.”

  WHEN UTU ASSAULTED the shield, Mala felt a rush of power tumble toward him from above, coursing through his trident and into his flesh. It felt as if chilled blood were being forced into his veins. For a moment his resolve wavered. But then his ring and chain glowed angrily, and a superheated flow of magic erupted from the trident. Mala’s boldness returned.

  Soon after, the pathetic band of wall-walkers abandoned the battlement. This pleased Mala. In his mind, the only significant loss thus far was Orkney the troll, who lay off to the side in a heap, his lifeless eyes staring at nothing. The ghouls and vampires couldn’t help but take a few bites of his still-juicy carcass, glancing frequently toward Mala to see if he would chastise them. But Mala didn’t really care. Things were going smoothly again. He even slapped the pirate on the back, knocking the scrawny little guy face-forward onto the black stone. But the pirate stood up and dusted himself off. Good! He was tougher than he looked.

  One by one, the trolls smote the door of Balak with their magical hammers. As the heat of day built even further, the trolls maintained their assault . . . boom, boom, boom. For the rest of the afternoon, they battered the black stone. Near dusk, the great door formed its first crack. When darkness fell in entirety, the trolls continued the barrage. Beneath the yellowish glow of the supernatural
shield, they swung and swung . . . boom, boom, boom. The crack spread, zipping here and there, weakening the door’s foundation. Boom, boom, boom. The monsters snarled in the darkness. Boom! Again and again and again.

  Near midnight, the great door of Balak, never before breached or even damaged, burst asunder. When the trolls cleared the debris, five iron portcullises were revealed. For the time being, Mala was satisfied. They would rest beneath the shield through the night and continue the assault at dawn.

  WHEN HENEPOLA GAVE the order, hundreds of horns were sounded to announce the retreat. Never in the recorded history of Nissaya had the first bulwark been abandoned. And yet, Mala had managed this with relative ease. Though they numbered barely forty thousand, never had such a formidable army of monsters been assembled, save the dragon hordes of old.

  Most of the defenders who had been stationed on Balak deserted its battlement and rushed across the four wooden drawbridges that spanned the spike-filled moat. About a thousand remained to dismantle the trebuchets so that they could not be turned and used against the second bulwark.

  The huge gate of Ott had long been closed and would take several bells to open wide enough to accommodate an evacuation, so hundreds of rope ladders were lowered instead. The defenders, long practiced in scaling the bulwarks, even in full armor and bearing weapons, made their way up the wall five per ladder. By late afternoon, not a single black knight or Tugar remained on Balak.

  By then, the disturbing sound of the troll hammers reverberated throughout the fortress. It was as if Balak were groaning like a living creature abandoned to the throes of torture. Through the rest of the afternoon, the defenders of Nissaya watched in silence.

  Dracools circled the fortress out of range of bow and sling, frightening away the hawks that typically flew in the skies. From the high heights, the baby dragons posed little threat, other than to serve as taunting reminders that the monsters also ruled the firmament. The only blessing was that Invictus and Bhayatupa did not seem inclined to reappear.

  From the moment they attained the battlement of Ott, the king of Nissaya and the chieftain of the Asēkhas huddled with several others, shouting to be heard over the constant drumming of the hammers.

  “And so, we witness the fall of Balak,” Henepola said. “If I were not seeing it with my own eyes, I would not have believed it possible. My reign will forever be remembered for this failure.”

  “Your words are foolish,” Kusala said, daring the king’s ire. “Why waste precious time speaking of failure? This is far from a rout. But we must make use of every opportunity we are provided. Though Balak will fall, its sacrifice will provide us with the time we need to make new plans. Mala must pay more dearly for the freedom to loiter beneath the second gate.”

  The king met Kusala’s challenge. “You inspire me, chieftain. But what have you to say beyond bravado?”

  “If we can find a way to negate the Stone-Eaters, then we can maintain our hold above the gate.”

  “That’s all well and good,” the king said. “But how do we stop the Stone-Eaters? Their range is greater than our trebuchets, much less our bows.”

  “We have to find a way to knock their projectiles out of the sky before they reach the battlement.”

  “I already attempted this,” Indajaala said. “I struck several of them directly with bolts from my staff, with little success.”

  “We might be able to redirect a few of them with fire from our trebuchets, but that would make little difference when hundreds are descending upon us,” Palak offered.

  “We could fashion our own magical shield,” Utu said calmly, seeming pleased by the concept of saving lives instead of destroying them.

  “That might work!” Indajaala said excitedly. “It would not be as strong as what Mala and the Pabbajja fashioned, but it should be stout enough to ward off the assault from above.”

  WHEN DUSK ARRIVED, the dreadful heat finally released its grip. The night air remained warm, but it felt almost chilly compared to what the defenders had become accustomed. Though the terrible drumming of the trolls continued without hesitation, the black knights and their allies were able to drink, eat, and relax.

  On the battlement of Ott opposite its gate, Yama-Utu sat far from the others, silent and motionless. Even from there he could hear the pounding of the hammers, but the sound was distant enough to make it tolerable. The snow giant stared at the crescent moon and breathed in the relatively cool air. So much had changed since Henepola introduced him to the ring. So much of his anger was gone. Kusala had asked him earlier in the day if he still had the desire to kill Mala. Now, Utu wondered himself. In most ways, Yama-Deva already was dead, overcome by an irresistibly pervasive evil. Would the destruction of his brother’s body repair the damage? For that matter, would anyone’s death right any wrong?

  Near midnight, the booming stopped. The ensuing silence was blessed. Utu was so deep in thought he didn’t notice the approach of the shadow or hear the swishing of wings. Nor did he register footsteps. Perhaps he would not have heard them even if he had been listening.

  3

  ON THE SAME morning that the Stone-Eaters first assaulted Nissaya, the great cleanup of the Green Plains began. For the fallen soldiers and Daasa, dozens of pyres, massive in height and breadth, were built just a mile beyond the northern gates. What remained of the druids did not deserve nor require elaborate pyres; after drying in the super-hot sun, their fibrous bodies would burn like fat wood.

  Of the original forty-five thousand soldiers of Jivita, twenty-five thousand had survived the battle, though five thousand of those still lay in medical tents, and most others bore at least minor injuries. That left one thousand score dead, a staggering loss. Though long planned, building the pyres was an enormous task, especially for weary hearts toiling in the heat of the day.

  Tons of wood, long since cut, seasoned, and stored, was hauled from the city and expertly piled to ensure the hottest burn. The exhausted soldiers were aided by fifty thousand citizens, more than half of whom had remained in the White City. Most of the druids were charred or hacked to pieces, their body parts spread for more than a league in all directions. Yet the task of piling the insect-like remains onto hundreds of hill-sized mounds was completed with amazing rapidity. The quicker their foul bodies were removed from the plains, the better.

  With the help of so many, especially the hard-working Tugars, the druids were ready to be cremated by late afternoon. Urbana’s bloated carcass, which stank like pus, was dragged into the center of one of the largest piles.

  With Laylah’s assistance, Rajinii and her necromancers used their staffs to set the mounds ablaze. No words were said beforehand, though many spat upon the heaps before they were lighted. Afterward, the magical fires roared so hot that most had to back far away, and the smell was worse than the swelter.

  Among the Jivitans, there was a bittersweet mixture of sadness and joy. The white horsemen and infantry who had been killed in battle now dwelled with the One God in paradise. But caring for their own dead, many of whom the monsters had dismembered, was gruesome work. Tugging the vamprace off a severed forearm or the greave off a shattered shin sickened the hardiest. But the metal was too precious to allow it to rust in the grass.

  The bodies of the destriers were laid upon the pyres first. Human bodies, each wrapped in a white sheet, were gracefully strewn on top. As a further show of respect for the new-found allies, the fallen Daasa were dispersed among them. By midevening, all was made ready for burning. It had been a day of astounding physical endurance. If not for the Tugars, it would have taken days longer to complete.

  The horns were sounded again, but this time in honor of the fallen, not as a warning that the city was under attack. All of Jivita, except those still at the havens, gathered on the plains, most carrying torches or candles. In response to the horns, Archbishop Bernard came forth from the White City, alongside fifty clergymen wearing robes of white samite interwoven with strands of silver that sparkled beneath the cre
scent moon. Bernard’s eulogy was eloquent, and it immediately was followed by a harmonic chorus of song. The beauty of it touched even Torg. Tugars honored their dead, but usually in less eloquent fashion.

  Navarese also spoke, and then the queen. Afterward, the necromancers, again aided by Laylah, set the pyres ablaze. These too burned fantastically hot and fast, and by midnight only large mounds of fluffy ash remained.

  Soon after the fires began, Torg went to Laylah and took her aside. The sorceress had changed into a black outfit a Tugarian female had brought her. Though her clothing was fresh, Laylah’s face and hands remained smudged by the strains of battle and labor. Torg started to cleanse her with his magic, but she gently shook her head.

  “Beloved, I wish not to bathe until the others have had the same opportunity,” Laylah said.

  Torg understood. Then he said, “Please come with me.”

  As always, she did not refuse.

  They walked in the direction of the river, well away from the blazing pyres. Long before they saw him, Torg and Laylah heard Ugga’s mournful howls. Near the bank of the river, another pyre had been built, large enough for just one man. Bard lay atop it, covered by a black Tugarian blanket. Huddled at the base of the pyre were Ugga, Sir Elu, Jord, Lucius, and Bonny. The surviving Daasa were spread all around. The men and Bonny were now adorned in new tunics and breeches, while Jord wore a white samite robe woven from non-magical cloth, a present from Manta the necromancer.

  Bonny smiled at Torg as he came near and mouthed the words “thank you.” Torg nodded, then turned his attention to Ugga, who continued to wail.

  “Me Bard . . . me Bard . . .” the crossbreed said, as he had from the moment his friend had fallen. Elu was crying too. Jord’s face remained stolid.

  Ugga looked up at Torg and Laylah, his small eyes still desperate with grief.

  “I has known him since Jord . . . Jord . . . changed me,” Ugga said, as if feeling the need to explain his sorrow.