by Melvin, Jim
Boom!
Despite her antiquity, Jord was startled. “It has begun,” the Faerie said.
Boom . . . boom!
“Father will wake soon,” the ghost-child said.
“But it will be too late to save Nissaya.”
“The fortress must fall. It is foreseen.”
“Many, many will perish,” Jord repeated.
“And if the fortress were to survive? They would not perish?” Peta said.
“You know what I mean.”
“And you know what I mean,” Peta said. “You and your kind have always known. Sometimes, though, what you do makes me sad.”
Boom!
“Emotion has nothing to do with it,” Jord said.
Boom! Boom! Boom!
Peta wiped away a single tear. Then she leapt back into the hole and vanished.
WHEN THE BOLT of energy from Mala’s trident had struck Torg, he had been cast into an unconscious pandemonium. During this second period of unconsciousness, he felt only darkness, as calm and quiet as a room without windows or doors—but also as insidious.
If not for the booming sounds, he might have slept exceptionally well. Was someone chopping wood or splitting stone? Torg considered getting up and ordering whomever it was to stop. But that seemed like so much effort. Better to press his hands against his ears and attempt to muffle the annoying noise.
“Grin and bear it,” his Vasi master would have chided.
But Dēsaka also said, “Anyone can be fooled once. But a warrior is never fooled twice.”
“I’ve fooled you many times,” Torg said proudly.
“Are you certain?”
The warrior-turned-Asēkha-turned-Death-Knower grunted and then sat up. Now it was midafternoon and as hot a day as Torg had ever experienced. Obhasa lay beside him, thrumming on the black stone as if attempting to wake him, but when Torg drew the Silver Sword from its scabbard and touched the blade, it was cold.
Then Jord was beside him.
“Where am I?” Torg said to her.
“Mala assaults the gate,” she said.
Torg rubbed his eyes.
“Why didn’t you wake us?”
“I was . . . unable.”
Torg grunted again. “You remind me of Dēsaka.” He stood groggily, leaned against Obhasa for support, and then staggered toward the low wall. He cautiously peered over the side—and gasped.
“Why didn’t you wake us?” he said again to Jord, but this time he was screaming.
Her pale cheeks flushed. “I could not.”
“You have doomed us!”
“It was unavoidable.”
“Get out of my way!” Torg shoved past her and went first to Utu, reaching down and slapping the snow giant across the face. There was no reaction, so he drew the Silver Sword from its scabbard and stuck its point into Utu’s cheek. The snow giant shrieked, sitting up so fast that Torg was cast aside. A thin trail of blood ran down Utu’s jaw and looped over his chin and down his neck.
“Where am I?” he screamed at Torg, his eyes bewildered.
“My words, exactly,” Torg said. “Listen to me, Yama-Utu. We are the victims of an extraordinary spell. The power of Invictus, working through Mala’s trident, has put us all in a trance. During that time, the Chain Man has formed a living portico over the gate of Hakam, and he and his monsters stand beneath it and assault the door.”
“I don’t understand . . .”
“The newborns. He has bound some of them together—melted them together—and formed a shield even greater than the one the Pabbajja created. We must wake the others. Doom is at hand!”
Torg went next to Kusala, lifting him by his jacket and shaking him. The chieftain came fully awake and then joined Torg in stirring the others. In a relatively short time, the battlement again was filled with active defenders. They stared down at a bizarre shield that pressed against Hakam above the gate, arching downward to the stone floor. Most of the other newborns and monsters remained outside this portico, but Mala, the three-headed giant, the trolls, and Stone-Eaters were nowhere to be seen. The pounding, however, betrayed their location.
“We must break it,” Torg shouted to Henepola. “Or the door will fall!”
Boulders were dumped over the side, but they bounced off the golden shield and tumbled away, crushing monsters that stood nearby but doing little damage to the portico. Utu heaved down the largest of the stones, but even they—cast with his great strength—could not dent the protective covering. Torg blasted it with Obhasa . . . one time, a dozen times, a hundred times, but the portico held.
“Do something!” Torg said to Jord.
“I have not the strength,” the Faerie said. “Not that kind of strength.”
The great bulwark shuddered. There was a cracking sound, a rending of stone. And then a screech—as if the black granite were crying for help.
Torg sighed, his face gone pale.
“We have two choices,” Torg said to Henepola. “We lower the ladders and fight them in the gap . . . or we wait for them inside the wall and fight them in the city. You are the king of Nissaya. This is your decision.”
Fiercely, Henepola gripped his staff. “We will wait for them inside the gate. But before we desert the battlement, we will wreak as much havoc as possible from above.”
Then the king went over to a wooden lever and yanked it, choking the tunneled entrance of Hakam with debris.
“That will buy us time, but we have twice learned not much,” Torg said. “Do what you will from above. I go now to the entrance to await the enemy.”
“I will join you,” Utu said urgently. Then he looked at Jord. “You must come, as well.”
“Of course,” said the Faerie, her green eyes ablaze.
AS TORG, JORD, and Utu raced down an interior stairway of Hakam, a sound as loud as an erupting volcano roared all around them. The defenders of the third bulwark were unleashing every armament that remained on the battlement, once again filling the gap with debris, fire, smoke, and steam.
“More monsters will die, but too few to make a difference,” Utu thought. “The princess was right when she said that Mala must fall for Nissaya to survive. And only I am capable of defeating him. Not even the Death-Knower wields that kind of power. But I must put on the ring at the last moment. Otherwise, my resolve will falter.”
Thousands of knights were already racing into the streets to protect the citizens and refugees who huddled in the bowels of the city. Several times during his stay at the fortress, Utu had walked among their masses, which included children and elderly. But there also were strong men and women, many of whom were armed. It was ironic that these people might form the final defense of the fortress. However, against the carnivorous monsters that came for them, they would be no match. Their deaths would be horrible, filling the air with screams that would haunt this mountain of stone for centuries. Though they were not of his kind, Utu pitied them—and held even greater anger at those who would perpetrate such a slaughter. The snow giant clung to these emotions with all his psychic strength. If he could imprint them deeply enough in his memory, perhaps they would linger after he placed the ring back on his finger.
Holding Obhasa in his left hand and the Silver Sword in his right, Torg stood next to Utu before the interior opening of the clogged entrance. The snow giant was amazed by the extent of the debris. It would take a dozen of his kind more than a day to clear such an avalanche of broken stone, but Utu could sense by the vibrations in the rubble that Mala’s monsters were proceeding far faster. The trolls and Stone-Eaters were especially adept at working with rock, and the Kojins were powerful and tireless. Occasionally, the mass of rubble rumbled and glowed. Utu believed it was during these times that Mala used the trident and the ring to blast away especially troublesome debris or perhaps one of the many portcullises.
Jord came beside Utu and Torg, but seemed to shy from the wizard’s gaze. Utu wasn’t sure what was going on, but he could guess: The white-haired woman had bee
n in a position to help, but had not. Why? At this point, Utu didn’t care. For the past three decades, he had been obsessed with his brother’s kidnapping, so much so that it had changed whom and what he was. Now the culmination of his desires and aversions chewed its way toward him through ninety cubits of poisoned rubble.
“Stay close,” he said to Jord.
“Yes,” the Faerie responded.
King Henepola, Madiraa, Indajaala, and the conjurers joined them. Kusala, the Asēkhas, and seven thousand Tugars, minus two score who had perished on Ott, also approached. Soon the remainder of the black knights who had not already entered the city to protect the refugees came forth. In all, almost fifty thousand awaited Mala’s army. Though the Chain Man had managed to defeat the three bulwarks, he had killed few defenders in the process. Nissaya was prepared to go down fighting, to say the least.
For the rest of the afternoon they stood in the heat, waiting for the greatest evil of their time to make its appearance. Great supplies of water and wine were shuttled through the ranks to fend off dehydration. Just beyond the gate, there were few places of shade, and the sun beat down on them like a titanic cinder, baking their bodies and brains and soaking the heavy padding within their armor with sweat. But they didn’t care. They no longer were concerned with conserving energy or rations. One way or the other, the battle would end on this day. The heat only made them angrier.
Henepola arranged his troops in an orderly fashion.
Though most of the city was a dense maze of narrow streets and tall stone buildings, a huge courtyard and garden ten hectares in diameter stood immediately behind the gate, providing enough room to contain most of the large army. The archers, five hundred score, were placed at the front. When Mala’s army emerged, they would bathe its front-runners with arrows and then give way to the black knights and Tugars. Then the archers would retreat into the city and hide in its many buildings, becoming snipers who would loose arrows from windows and rooftops.
“Rather than wait for them by the gate, we should spread our entire army throughout the interior,” Commander Palak argued. “It will make it more difficult for the monsters to defeat us.”
“That would only extend our misery,” Henepola said.
“We draw the line here,” Torg said, as if the debate already were over.
Palak said no more.
“If we are routed, what then?” Kusala said to both kings.
“Whoever’s left will fight them in the streets,” Henepola said. “But eventually, the few who remain should make for the keep and attempt to escape to the mountains. There are many places to hide in Mahaggata. Find whatever safety you can. And pray to God the Creator, all the while.”
“Sire, when will we know when the time is right to run?” Palak said.
“You will know,” Jord said to the commander, with a supernal certainty.
“Listen to me!” Utu said. All who stood near fell into silence. “Regardless of what happens, I must be allowed to confront Mala without the threat of ambush from without.”
“Understood,” Torg said. “The Asēkhas and I will surround you. When the time comes, concern yourself only with Mala. We will take care of the rest.”
The snow giant nodded solemnly, then turned to Jord. “As I said before, stay close.”
“What do we do if Mala chooses not to face you?” Palak said. “For all we know, he’ll shy from you, preferring to have his minions do the fighting.”
The snow giant chuckled ruefully. “He wields the trident, the ring, and the chain. He will not be shy.”
“I’ve seen no ring,” Madiraa said.
“Nonetheless . . .” Utu said.
At dusk, the heat relented, and the mass of rubble at the border of the clogged entrance shuddered visibly. Nissayan scouts on top of the battlement reported that the monsters were gathered near the entrance, prepared to charge.
At full dark beneath a quarter moon, the first speckles of golden light shone through pinholes in the debris. The jumbled rock shook like the inside of a door being splintered by a battering ram. Crumbles of stone, dust, and quicklime frittered downward, swirling in the torchlight. Utu grasped Jord’s thin arm and squeezed.
“Now.”
The Faerie complied without resistance—and then stepped away and blended into the throng. Torg, Kusala, and the Asēkhas encircled the snow giant. The entrance rumbled, and a boulder fell away, followed by an explosion of rock and dust.
Utu slid the ring of pure Maōi back onto his right middle finger. The now-familiar agony returned, causing the snow giant to cry out and collapse to his knees. Even then, he was taller than the desert warriors who surrounded him.
Once again, the Maōi cleansed his mind. His desire to destroy Mala fizzled, an all-encompassing craving to heal him replacing it.
“Purity is the enslaver,” Henepola had said just three nights before, though now it seemed like eons ago.
Santapadam (Path of Peace) called to him in a voice as crystalline as perfection.
“Utu, are you all right?” he heard Torg shouting, though the Death-Knower’s voice sounded far away. At that moment, the snow giant again realized how much he loved the wizard, though he had spent so little time in his presence. He loved them all: Kusala, Henepola, Madiraa, and the rest. They were wonderful beings.
“If I can get close enough,” Utu mumbled, not certain if his words were even audible. “If I can . . . touch . . . him.”
The rubble gave way, tumbling apart like a dam weakened by floodwaters. From the smoke and dust strode Mala, his trident, ring, and chain aglow. He had a wild look in his eyes. Rage. Hunger. Madness. All in one.
And then the newborns burst around him, snarling like rabid dogs. Henepola’s army was besieged. A battle commenced of horrific proportions.
Torg and Kusala tried to lift Utu to his feet, but it burned to touch him. Nevertheless, the snow giant smiled—and then stood without aid.
“Yama-Deva!” cried Utu in a voice so loud that all action halted. “To slay the others, you must slay me first.” But he did not intend the words in the manner they were spoken.
Mala’s face twisted. “Who are you?”
“I am the end of all things,” Utu said, “and the beginning.”
Then he strode toward the Chain Man, arms spread wide.
So ends Book Four.
Blinded by Power
(Book Five: The Death Wizard Chronicles)
(Excerpt)
Fall of the Fortress
HEEDLESS OF THE quicklime dust that poisoned the air, a company of monsters tore through the portcullises, boulders, and debris that clogged the entrance of Hakam. But it was taking longer than Mala expected. Some of the stones were too heavy for the Kojins, trolls, and Stone-Eaters to lift. And the iron gratings of the largest bulwark were crafted in such a way that not even the three-headed giant could break them.
Again and again, Mala was forced to blast the most difficult obstacles with golden beams from the tines of Vikubbati. The thick iron gratings, never before assailed, put up an admirable fight. But eventually they grew red hot, liquefied, and pooled on the ground. The most troublesome boulders also succumbed, splattering like clods of dirt. Even then it took from midafternoon until well into the evening to clear a sizable opening through the long tunnel.
When only about twenty cubits of debris stood between Mala and his enemies, he impatiently unleashed a continuous stream of power that seemed to shake the very bedrock of the fortress. Finally the rubble could no longer tolerate the abuse, and it blew apart.
With the ruthlessness of a conqueror, Mala entered Nissaya. Behind him came the snarling newborns, angry and oh, so hungry.
At first the smoke and dust obscured Mala’s view, but soon it became evident that a great force of Nissayans was strategically arranged in a courtyard that lay beyond the gate of Hakam. Thousands of torches were raised in challenge. Polished blades glimmered in the moonlight. Much to his dismay, Mala sensed little fear from his enemies.<
br />
The defenders loosed a locust-swarm of arrows, dozens of which struck him. Even without his magic to protect him, the arrows would have done Mala little harm, but the essence of Carūūl formed a magical sheath over his flesh that was impregnable to ordinary weapons. The newborns also were unharmed, their metallic flesh tougher than the finest armor.
The arrows signaled the beginning of a ferocious battle. Mala stomped forward, prepared to crush anything in his path. In no way would he be a passive commander, cowering behind his troops while they did the dirty work. What pleasure would there be in that? Murder and mayhem were Mala’s favorite pastimes, and he would take on any and all challengers, including the Death-Knower, if he dared to show his annoying face. With the addition of the trident and the ring, Mala had grown beyond all but Invictus. None among this pathetic rabble could stand against him.
Unexpectedly, a milky illumination formed before his eyes, so bright it was blinding. Then a proud voice rose above the rising tumult.
“Yama-Deva! To slay the others, you must destroy me first.”
Once again the unease he had experienced when he had first heard the sounding of the horn reared its ugly head. How dare this fool attempt to thwart the glory of his coming?
(Please continue reading for much more information)
Glossary
Author’s note: Many character and place names are English derivatives of Pali, a Middle Indo-Aryan dialect closely related to Sanskrit but now extinct as a spoken language. Today, Pali is studied mainly to gain access to Theravada Buddhist scriptures and is frequently chanted in religious rituals.
Aarakaa Himsaa (ah-RUH-kah HIM-sah): Defensive strategy used by Tugars that involves always staying at least a hair’s width away from your opponent’s longest strike.
Abhisambodhi (ab-HEE-sahm-BOH-dee): Highest enlightenment.
Adho Satta (AH-dho SAH tah): Anything or anyone who is neither a dragon nor a powerful supernatural being. Means low one in ancient tongue.