Torn By War: 4 (The Death Wizard Chronicles)

by Melvin, Jim

The defenders dumped more oil over the side. They also dropped granite boulders, sacks of broken glass, and clay canisters of quicklime. No ordinary army could have withstood such a barrage. The walkway would have been too slippery for sollerets or boots, and the debris and poisons, cast from such a height, would have crushed, singed, or sickened anyone at the base of the bulwark. But the sheer mass of the newborns propelled them forward, and to the horror of the defenders, the bridge reached the base of the wall and became a living ladder, creeping up the side of Ott like an army of troll-sized ants. The slippery oil slowed the newborns’ progress, but their enormous numbers overcame the hindrance. In a relatively short time, they were halfway up the side of the bulwark, despite a relentless barrage from above.

  “Step back! Step back!” Torg said. Then he leaned over a crenel and touched the slick granite with the head of Obhasa.

  “Aggi!” he cried. Blue-green fire burst from the head of the staff, setting the oil aflame. There was a poof and a clap of thunder, and then a huge portion of Ott’s exterior became coated with fire. The nearest of the newborns were engulfed and fell backward, tumbling into the moat. Visors lowered, the defenders peered over the edge and cheered.

  “Torgon! Torgon!”

  Torg knew it was far too soon for celebration, but even he was tempted to linger and watch the result of the conflagration, leaving himself exposed a moment too long. A trio of golden beams leapt up from below, unleashed from Vikubbati’s tines. As Torg was knocked off his feet, he lost his grip on Obhasa, which clattered onto the wall walk. If not for Kusala, Torg might have been thrown all the way across the battlement and off the other side, but the chieftain sprang mightily and snared Torg’s ankles, dropping him hard on the black granite.

  Torg tried to sit up, but dizziness overcame him.

  Then darkness.

  KUSALA CAUGHT THE back of the wizard’s head and laid it down gently. It was the first time the chieftain had ever seen his lord bested so convincingly. The flesh of his own face still burned from the force of Mala’s attack, yet the chieftain had been standing several paces away from the direct strike. Kusala had never felt such power. The Chain Man was far greater than he had been at Dibbu-Loka or in the mountains west of Kamupadana. The trident was a thing of magic beyond the Asēkha’s comprehension.

  Utu knelt beside Torg.

  “How badly is he hurt?” the snow giant said to Kusala.

  “You tell me.”

  Jord appeared and placed her delicate hand on Torg’s chest. “The wizard is strong,” she said. “But Mala’s magic is stronger. An unseen battle rages within Torg’s flesh.”

  Kusala started to respond, but then Churikā was behind him, waving her arms in distress.

  “Chieftain! The fire wanes, and the newborns mass again. Soon they will breach the battlement.”

  Kusala turned back to Utu and Jord. “Can one of you awaken him? Can you heal him?”

  “We will try,” Jord said.

  Reluctantly, the chieftain left Torg and raced back to the parapet. As Churikā had reported, the fire was nearly burned out, and the supplies of oil and debris were depleted. Kusala guessed that another ten thousand newborns had perished in the fires, but at least four thousand score still lived. Once again, they were scrambling up the wall, one on top of the other, in three separate piles of tangled fury.

  Far below, Mala and the other monsters massed in front of Ott’s gate. Trolls were there, and Kojins, and the remaining three-headed giant. The first thunderous boom from the giant’s tree-sized hammer shook the battlement, enraging the newborns further. Kusala realized that only the Tugars could prevent a slaughter. Kusala pushed through a mob of confusion until he found Henepola, who was poised directly over the gate.

  “You must retreat to Hakam!” Kusala said.

  “I will not leave my people,” the king snapped back.

  “Not just you!” Kusala screamed. “All but Utu and the Tugars must flee. Your knights cannot stand against these monsters. Hakam will provide better protection. Leave the newborns to the Tugars.”

  “Do you believe us so craven?”

  “Kusala speaks the truth,” said Madiraa, who stood at her father’s side. “You are capable of facing these beasts, but the rest of the black knights will be outmatched. Order the retreat to Hakam . . . while we still have time to rush beneath the closing door. And come with us, so that we might have your leadership a while longer.”

  At first Henepola was furious. Then his expression softened. Though he cared little for his own welfare, he still loved his people.

  “Very well,” he said to Kusala. “The door will take until dawn to fully close, but Ott should hold at least until then. Regardless, ladders will remain lowered until every Tugar is safely on the battlement of Hakam.”

  “Agreed,” Kusala said. “Go!”

  As Henepola and the black knights began their retreat down the stairways that lined Ott’s interior, Kusala ordered a dozen Tugars to encircle Torg and Utu. Then he returned to the parapet. A pounding sound as loud as an earthquake shook the bulwark, causing the black granite to quiver. The three-headed giant had struck again, and Kusala peered over the side and watched as it swung the tree-sized hammer a third time. Ott shuddered, but the gate—six cubits thick—held firm.

  Kusala raced back to Utu and Jord, pushing between the Tugars. “Any progress?”

  “His body is motionless, but his mind writhes within a nightmare,” Jord said.

  “We’ll need him—soon! Can’t you do something?”

  The snow giant shook his head. “When he wakes, he wakes.”

  Churikā was behind him again. “Chieftain . . . they come!”

  Kusala growled. “Take him, then,” he said to the Tugars who guarded the wizard. “Carry him to the battlement of Hakam.”

  “I will go with him,” Jord said.

  “And you?” the chieftain said to Utu.

  “Yes?”

  “We need you to help us fight!”

  “I think not.”

  Even as they spoke, the first of the newborns fought past the defenders and climbed over the parapet.

  THOUGH THE WORLD around Torg was filled with bedlam, it did not compare to that which raged inside his own head. The blasts of energy from Mala’s trident had done more than just knock him backward, they had cast him into a deep but noisy unconsciousness that resembled a storm laced with lightning and thunder. The Chain Man’s magic, imbued with the might of Invictus, swirled through his flesh, attempting to disintegrate it from the inside out. No one who defended the fortress—except perhaps Utu and Jord—could have survived the assault. Even Henepola or Kusala would have perished from a direct strike.

  But Torg’s flesh was beyond a conjurer’s, beyond even a Tugar’s. He was a Death-Knower, the greatest to ever live, and it was enough. Bit by bit, he directed his own magic to consume the intruding power. Eventually his mind calmed, and soon after he began to hear voices.

  “Give me the ring. I will protect it with my life and return it to you as soon as you request it of me.”

  “I will not.”

  As the final shreds of Mala’s assault were incinerated, Torg managed to sit up.

  “You must . . .” His voice sounded weak. He took a deep breath and then said, more steadily: “You know that you must.”

  Utu stood and towered over Torg, who remained seated on the hard stone. But before either said more, an angry beast—huge and golden—leapt upon the snow giant’s back. Utu shrugged and cast the thing aside, where it crashed onto the hard stone. At once several dozen Tugars attacked, hacking and stabbing at it. Yet even the magnificent Tugarian blades could not kill it. Golden armor, extremely strong but surprisingly pliable, protected the beast like metallic skin. Only a slit that revealed the eyes exposed any hint of weakness. And when Kusala stepped forward, turned his uttara on its side, and drove the blade through the slit, the newborn collapsed.

  Still, it was just one death. At least eighty thousand remained aliv
e.

  Another booming sound shook the bulwark. More newborns surmounted the battlement. The Tugars were hard-pressed.

  “Mala and the giant assault the gate,” Kusala shouted to Torg.

  Torg regained his feet. He held the Silver Sword in his right hand and Obhasa in his left.

  “Henepola?” he said to the chieftain.

  “The king, his conjurers, and the black knights have already begun a retreat to Hakam. The great door lowers, even as we speak.”

  Another newborn crashed among them, reaching for Kusala with glowing hands almost as large as a troll’s. Now almost fully recovered, Torg spun and struck at the creature’s neck with his sword. The supernal blade hacked through armor, flesh, and bone, with its usual disdain. The newborn fell and lay still, but did not bleed. Instead, tendrils of fire spurted from his neck.

  More golden monsters pressed closer. Torg heard the rare but unmistakable cries of injury and anguish; for the first time in centuries, desert warriors were dying in significant numbers. The transformed newborns were too strong and numerous, and the supernatural armor provided protection almost as impenetrable as a Kojin’s magical sheath.

  Torg stood beneath the snow giant and stared up at his broad face. “Either give Jord the ring—or leave us.”

  “I will do neither. I wish to confront Mala—and I will need the ring to do it.”

  “Agreed,” Torg shouted in a voice so loud that it echoed between Ott and Balak. “But we need you now . . . without the ring! Jord will not attempt to steal it from you. She is beyond its influence. Yama-Utu . . . give . . . her . . . the . . . ring!”

  Now at least a hundred of the newborns had gained the battlement of Ott, and many more were close behind. Another boom shook the wall. Then another. Above the clamor, Mala’s obnoxious voice could be heard, full of threats and boasts.

  “Give Jord the ring—or leave us,” Torg shouted one final time. “I can afford to dally here no longer.”

  THOUGH MADNESS raged all around him, Yama-Utu felt strangely calm. Fighting and anger accomplished nothing. Violence begat violence. Love begat love. The ring burned his finger, but it now burned only with purity . . .

  And emptiness . . . so limitless and blessed even Mala would succumb to its eternal lure.

  But when he was asked to surrender the ring, Utu’s serenity was disturbed. Anger, which now felt unfamiliar, crept into his awareness, like a tendril of lava slipping off the side of a mountain into a bed of flowers.

  “I will not,” he had said.

  But he knew that he must. What good was truth if it could not tolerate its own scrutiny? The ring was beyond the sensation of craving, so he must be too.

  Utu removed the ring. Though it fit the snow giant’s middle finger almost too tightly, Jord was able to slide it over her small hand and onto her wrist, where it hung like a loose bracelet. The pure Maōi, which had burned him so painfully, seemed to have no effect on her pale flesh.

  Instantly, the snow giant sensed his perception begin to change. Suddenly, the battle that raged around him felt far more threatening. And when his sensitive ears picked out Mala’s ramblings within the cacophony, a rage rose inside him that caused him to bare his fangs. To Utu’s consternation, his companions seemed pleased by his sudden change of mood.

  “As my Vasi master used to say, ‘If it’s a fight they want, it’s a fight they’ll get!’” Kusala said.

  Utu turned to Jord, as if seeking her approval.

  “The moment you ask . . .” she said, and then raced toward one of the inner stairways.

  An ever-increasing number of newborns pressed against a host of Tugars on the battlement. The Death-Knower and his chieftain strode to meet the golden creatures. Utu watched as blue-green flame spurted from the head of the wizard’s staff, blowing up a pair of newborns and knocking more than a dozen others off their feet.

  Tugars pounced upon the fallen ones, attempting to drive their blades into the exposed slits, but the newborns were quick and powerful. Three more monsters were killed, but the rest attacked again, driving the warriors back. The Tugars’ skill and dexterity amazed the snow giant, but it became obvious that even they were outmatched. If not for Torg’s presence, they would have been routed.

  Far below, there was another boom, followed by the horrific sound of rending stone—and then an explosion of laughter from Mala. Apparently the gate of Ott had begun to fail, but Utu paid it little heed. Instead, he listened to the Chain Man’s absurd exhilaration with intense concentration and found that he was able to detect a tiny shred of Yama-Deva in that laugh.

  Whatever remained of Utu’s placidity was swept away. Rage replaced it. The snow giant waded into a mob of newborns. Though some stood as tall as eight cubits, Utu was taller still—and stronger. Not even their golden coats could resist his battering fists. Torg came up beside him, hacking the enemy to pieces with his sword, while the Tugars pressed forward from both sides. The newborns were herded toward the parapet, where they began to tumble backward off the wall. Not even their bodies could survive a fall of one hundred cubits, and those that struck stone splattered, while others landed on their own kind, killing both. The snow giant heaved the last of the newborns far into the darkness.

  As the Tugars cheered the apparent victory, another boom shook the night, followed by a shattering of stone. Utu peered over the side and saw that the door had been broken. Next came a rumbling sound.

  “Henepola has flooded the tunnel with quicklime and debris,” Kusala said.

  Mala cursed and railed, then ordered the trolls and Stone-Eaters to clear a new path. The remaining three-headed giant joined in, digging through the rubble with hands as large as a man. Without warning, the Chain Man looked up and seemed to peer directly into Utu’s eyes. Then he whipped the tines of the trident upward and launched three bolts of power directly at the snow giant’s face. Utu leapt aside just in time. The golden beams clipped the edge of a merlon and shattered it. A shard of granite struck a Tugar with enough force to puncture his thigh. The warrior looked down in amazement, as if the sight of his own blood was an impossible occurrence.

  From Obhasa, Torg launched a bolt of his own. Utu watched Mala stagger backward, enveloped in a sheath of blue-green flame. But then, an incalculable array of colors—crackling like fire in dry leaves—enveloped first Mala’s left fist and then his entire body. The Death-Knower’s magic was swept away, prompting the Chain Man to howl triumphantly. Then he launched more than a dozen blasts at the top of the wall, forcing Torg and Utu back while shattering large portions of the crenulations. At least six more Tugars were injured.

  “We must retreat to Hakam before its great door slams shut,” Utu heard Kusala shout to Torg. “Once the entrance of Ott is breached, climbing the rope ladders will be too slow. We’ll be trapped.”

  ONE BELL BEFORE dawn, King Henepola X stood on Hakam and watched with dread as the first of the newborn monsters reached the battlement of Ott. Then he saw Torg’s magic lash out, and he cheered heartily along with the rest of his army. The snow giant joined in the fight and forced the enemy back. There was more cheering. But even on Hakam, the king and his black knights could feel the bedrock tremble as Mala and his monsters assaulted Ott’s great gate.

  “I should not have fled the second bulwark,” he said to Madiraa. “I should be fighting alongside Torg and the Tugars. Too long have I cowered!”

  “Father, you have never cowered,” Madiraa said. “But I fear that your desire to fight will be realized all too fully. Each and every one of us will have to fight before this day is done.”

  “Perhaps not,” Indajaala said.

  “What do you mean?” Madiraa responded.

  Surprisingly, the conjurer dropped to his knees before the king. “Sire, it may be that Mala is too great, even for us. But that does not mean that all must die. I know that you would never abandon Nissaya, and so I would not ask it. But must all your people perish? Must your bloodline end forever?”

  “Speak plainl
y!” Henepola said.

  “I would suggest that Madiraa lead a small force of black knights into the bowels of the keep, where they could escape into Mahaggata,” Indajaala said. “At least some among us would survive.”

  “Never!” the princess shouted, with enough force to stagger the conjurer. “I will not flee to the caverns like a coward. No order, not even from my king and father, could impel me to do such a thing. I would bare my throat and slice it open with a dagger before I would agree.”

  Rather than become angry, Henepola chuckled. “You encouraged me to flee Ott, but you will not take the same advice,” he said to his only child.

  In the torchlight of Hakam, Madiraa’s dark face grew even darker. “It is not the same.”

  “And so it is not.” Then he turned to Indajaala and gestured for him to rise. “Though I love my daughter more than life itself, I would not ask such a thing of her. Perhaps the time will come for her—and others among us—to flee. But that time is not now. Do not forget that the energy of God’s creation is forever our ally, thriving within the very stone. As long as Hakam stands, we will remain to defend Nissaya.”

  “And what of the refugees within the city?” the conjurer said.

  “If we fall, they will fall.”

  Commander Palak pointed down at the second bulwark. “Sire, the door of Ott has been broken . . . and it appears the Tugars are retreating.”

  Henepola sighed. Then he raised his Maōi staff and fired a blast of milky energy at a protrusion above the entrance of Ott. The murder holes released their fury. It would buy them enough time for the Tugars to retreat and for Hakam’s door to fully close, but it was evident that Ott was lost.

  “If the third bulwark falls, what then?” he whispered to himself.

  Even as he spoke, the first of the Tugars poured underneath the half-closed door of Hakam, some carrying dead warriors on their backs.

  WHILE THE REST of the Tugars rushed beneath the door of Hakam, Torg, Utu, Kusala, and the Asēkhas stood in front of the interior entrance of Ott. Though the second bulwark’s door had been broken, the tunnel-like entrance, sixty cubits deep, remained protected by ten iron portcullises in addition to being clogged with dust and debris. The monsters clearing the entryway were stunningly strong, but even they could not open a path before dawn. The greater danger was the newborns regaining the battlement now that Torg and Utu had descended, but Mala seemed to be holding them back. Apparently he wanted to be the first present when the next phase of the battle began. For the time being, those behind Ott remained safe.