Blinded by Power: 5 (The Death Wizard Chronicles)

by Jim Melvin

  An ordinary general with an ordinary army would have ordered his commanders to arrange their squadrons in proper formation before beginning the assault. But nothing about Mala and his host was ordinary. Discipline meant little to the Chain Man. Strength, fury, and horror were his greatest weapons. The newborns were hungry again. And thirsty. Soon they would be feasting on the flesh and blood of the Jivitans and their steeds.

  Mala raised Vikubbati skyward. The massive trident twitched in his hand. Imbued with the sorcerer’s innate power, Vikubbati was one of the most formidable weapons to ever exist. And that didn’t even take into account the might of Carūūl, his magical ring. Aaaaah, it was wonderful to be invincible.

  The golden energy that erupted from the tines leapt skyward with a thunderous boom. The newborns, huddled together on the Green Plains, did not attempt to flee. To a man, they were frightened. But to a man, they were also entranced, their previous taste of dark power still lingering in the furthest corners of their minds.

  It would be sweet again to be huge, strong, and dangerous.

  Sweet again to be lost in the throes of anguish.

  Sweet again to eat.

  An enormous yellow ring formed in the blue sky. To Mala it looked beautiful. He stared at it with pride before willing it to descend. The newborns screamed in agony. Mala screamed along with them.

  Afterward, there was no need for him to order the attack.

  The newborns poured forward, like liquid gold spilled onto a carpet of green.

  37

  FIVE ROWS OF five thousand mounted horsemen were pressed together on the Green Plains in a rectangular formation more than a league in breadth. There were no standards and little other evidence of heraldry, just a wall of white armor worn by both rider and destrier. So closely serried were the Jivitans, a sheet of parchment could not have been slid between any two of their steeds. The great warhorses had been trained since birth for a moment such as this. Those in the densest interior of the wall remained calm and well-behaved. There was little jostling or complaint among the beasts, most of which stood as tall as twenty-five hands.

  Each horse bore more than fifteen stones of white armor. The riders were also heavily armored, from helm to solleret, and each carried a kite-shaped shield in addition to their weapons. Their armor and shields were white, except for green girdles, green spikes on their gauntlets, and green stars on the centers of the shields that served as Jivitan banners.

  Rajinii, Navarese, Torg, and Kusala rode before the front rank, which conspicuously did not contain Tugars. Today there would be no need for eloquent speeches; the superbly trained Jivitans knew what to do. The tactics they would employ against Mala and his host were unusual but simple. If they worked as planned, victory was at least possible. If not, there would be a quick slaughter.

  Worrins-Julich was one of the Jivitans on the front rank. Navarese signaled to the senior captain, who nodded in return. A channel opened just wide enough for the foursome to enter. Afterward, the channel closed.

  Rajinii, Navarese, Torg, and Kusala exited the rear of the wall into an open space illuminated by dazzling sunlight. Waiting for them was an entirely different kind of army. The Tugars and Asēkhas, all on foot, cheered their arrival, along with Manta and the other necromancers who had survived the battle with the druids.

  Also with them were Lucius and Bonny, currently in their normal states, they too on foot. But Ugga was astride a massive destrier, his opened visor revealing a bearded grin. Elu was strapped to the armor on the crossbreed’s back, facing backward. Ugga politely swung his warhorse about so that the Svakaran could wave. Torg couldn’t help but chuckle. Burly Boulogne also was present, mounted on a pony no larger than a big dog. Less than half Elu’s height, the enchanter would have appeared to most as a helpless toddler among such powerful giants. But Torg knew better. Burly wielded considerable magic.

  Torg’s eyes searched for Laylah among the gathering and found her standing alone in a multicolored patch of wildflowers, with Izumo, fully barded, at her side. The sorceress was resplendent in white Jivitan armor, and it comforted him to see that she held Obhasa in her right hand. The closed visor of her helm obscured her face, but her long yellow hair poured down her back. Torg’s heart skipped a beat, and he found himself pressing his hand against his forehead just to steady himself. Life could be so cruel . . . to put such a magnificent being in peril.

  Navarese’s hard words shattered Torg’s reverie. “It is three leagues to Cariya. Once the battle begins, we will be pressed slowly back toward the river. If the enemy is not destroyed by the time we reach it, we will fall. So act as quickly as you can. The white horsemen are the conduits, but it is you who will do the killing. If you succeed, we will succeed. If you fail, we will fail.”

  “Ema! Ema!” the Tugars shouted.

  Without urging, Bhojja trotted over to Izumo and nuzzled the stallion’s horned chamfrain. Torg leaned over and lifted Laylah’s visor. Her gray-blue eyes met his deeper blue.

  “Beloved,” she said. “The time has come.”

  “Stay near, my love. We will fight the enemy, side-by-side.”

  “I’ll do my best. But we both know there will be moments when you are needed elsewhere.”

  “If so, I will return to you.”

  “Torg,” she said, her voice suddenly frightened. “What will we do?”

  Torg could barely breathe. “Stay alive,” he said. “Please . . . stay alive . . .”

  “I’ll try . . .”

  Even as they spoke, they looked upward and saw the yellow ring form in the sky. After it descended, a disturbing rumbling ensued. Jivitan war horns blared in response. Then there were shouts and a clashing series of thuds.

  Mala’s horde was upon them.

  CAPTAIN WORRINS-JULICH was a seasoned veteran. Though Jivita had enjoyed a relatively peaceful era during his lifetime, few days had passed where he had not trained in the martial arts. The captain had fought in many skirmishes, riding as far north as the Gap of Gamana to deal with Duccaritan pirates, as far south as Kincara to duel with wild men from Kolankold, and as far east as Nissaya in pursuit of Mogols. But the recent encounter with the druids had been his first full-scale battle, and the ferocity and intensity of it still amazed him. Yet all that paled to what now approached from the east.

  As the sun rose before them like an angry titan, a sickening wave of heat rolled over the plains, causing the Jivitans’ white armor to superheat. Next came a flood of gold so massive in scope it caused the ground to tremble. Despite the pounding of his frightened heart, Julich positioned his kite-shaped shield on the left shoulder of his muscled destrier and pressed his left elbow against the horse’s breast. All five thousand others in the front row did the same, forming a shield wall more impenetrable than the most formidable infantry could have devised. Each destrier weighed almost three hundred stones—heavier even than the newborns that would soon assault them.

  “Hold your places,” Julich shouted. “Hold!”

  The humming of the druids had caused his teeth to chatter, but now the rumbling of the ground was every bit as loud and intimidating. Sixty thousand newborns thundered forward, with no thought of slowing down.

  When the newborns were within a stone’s throw, Julich felt as if he might swoon. There was no escaping now. He was trapped on the sides and from behind, and if he spurred his destrier forward, he would be trampled. In the final moments before the collision, he thought to himself, “Am I the only coward among us?” A single breath later, the transformed golden soldiers plowed into the front rank.

  There was a cacophony of clashing metal, screeching voices, snorting horses, and snarling monsters. The entire front rank was jammed backward into the row behind. Julich felt as if his arm had been broken again. But the magnificent horses bore the brunt of the assault. Though more and more newborns joined the barrage, the Jivitans held.

  “Angana! (Open!)” Julich yelled.

  In much the same manner that Torg’s foursome had
been permitted to enter, a channel appeared between the horses just wide enough for a single line of newborns to slip through the wall of shields. Unimpeded, the monsters poured through the opening, snapping and snarling but eager to press their newfound advantage. In a matter of moments more than five hundred had passed through the armored wall into a wide field of green grass. Nothing stood before them, so they turned in unison, prepared to attack the enemy’s rear.

  “Atiganha! (Close!)” Julich yelled.

  The temporary channel was sealed shut. Newborns continued to pound against the wall of shields with fantastic strength, attempting to tear the horsemen off their mounts with their metallic claws. Julich was counting. “One . . . two . . . three . . . four . . .” When he reached thirty, he would give the order to open again.

  WHEN THE LAST of the monsters passed through the shield wall into the open field, Kusala and the Tugars attacked. The transformed newborns were difficult to slay, even for Asēkhas, but a large part of what had made them invincible at Nissaya had been their vast numbers. Navarese’s plan had created a scenario in which segments of the enemy would be outnumbered almost twenty to one. Suddenly the newborns were under assault by nine thousand black-clad warriors, not to mention Torg, Laylah, Rajinii, the necromancers, and the Gillygaloo.

  With nowhere to run, the golden monsters fought with ferocity but were soon overwhelmed. Twenty Kantaara Yodhas leapt upon each newborn, holding it in place while an Asēkha or another warrior turned their uttaras on their sides and drove the blades through the slit in what used to be their visor. Where Torg went, dozens of newborns fell, hacked to death by the fury of the Silver Sword. Laylah and Rajinii also wreaked havoc, as did the necromancers. In an amazingly short time, all of the newborns were dead and dragged away.

  But there was no time to pause for celebration.

  “They come again!” Navarese shouted.

  This amazed Kusala. They had killed five hundred without a single casualty of their own, but it still was just the barest beginnings of victory. The chieftain wasn’t as worried about the Tugars as he was the white horsemen. He could only imagine what they were facing on the other side of the shield wall. How long could they hold before they were swept beneath the onslaught?

  Before he could complete the thought, the wall opened like a broken dam, and the next wave of newborns poured into view. These too appeared puzzled, then angry. The Tugars attacked again. Kusala saw Podhana slay one newborn, then get knocked to the ground by another. Instantly Churikā came to his rescue, shouldering the newborn away. Then Torg was there, taking the monster’s head with a mighty stroke.

  The second wave included other monsters: a pair of cave trolls, half a dozen Mogols mounted on wolves, and a handful of ghouls and vampires. Kusala slew one of the trolls with a hack across the throat. Ugga took the second with an axe-blow to the chest. The other monsters, suddenly aware that they had stumbled into a trap, tried to flee and were cut down more easily than the newborns. But Kusala already was feeling weary, which made him worry even more about the Jivitans. If the shield wall collapsed before Mala’s army was significantly reduced, they would stand little chance.

  There was no rest.

  A third wave poured through the wall. Kusala went on the attack again. Above the din, he could hear shouting between Torg and Navarese. It appeared a white horseman had broken from formation to bring words of warning: A Kojin was assaulting the front rank. Jivitans were falling. They needed help.

  “Laylah, you must stay here! I will return,” he heard Torg say to the sorceress. Then, “Asēkhas . . . to your king!”

  Instantly, all the Asēkhas surrounded him, including Kusala.

  Navarese lifted a white horn and blew. A gap appeared in the rear of the wall.

  Torg urged Bhojja forward.

  AFTER ORDERING the third split in the ranks, Captain Julich began another count. He could only guess how things were going behind the wall, but he knew that it already was desperate in the front. Even from his limited range of vision, Julich had seen more than a dozen white horsemen wrenched from their saddles and pulled screaming into a sea of snarling newborns, only to be replaced by horsemen who moved up from the row behind. He guessed that several hundred white horsemen already had been slain, but when compared to twenty-five thousand, that was not such a large number.

  Still, Mala’s army exerted pressure that was maddeningly intense. A newborn had smashed Julich’s helm and shivered his shield-arm. He didn’t believe he could hold out much longer. The thought made him sad. Not that he had expected to see the end of this day. Few, if any, who began the battle on the front rank had much chance of survival. His faith taught him that all true believers would be reunited in Ekadeva’s heaven, yet he wasn’t ready to give up on life just yet. He loved his fellow soldiers too much.

  Julich sensed more than saw the Kojin. The morning already was absurdly hot, and the padding beneath his armor was so drenched with sweat it felt heavier than the metal. Now something even hotter approached, causing Julich to choke. The newborns nearest him shied away, and suddenly a monster almost as tall as a snow giant came into his range of vision. At first Julich thought it was Mala himself, come to crush them all. Then he saw the six arms and the bulbous breasts and recognized the creature as a Kojin.

  As if somehow sensing Julich was a senior commander, the gigantic ogress came straight for him. Julich felt his destrier back up into the warhorse behind, and then suddenly it tried to rear, though the heavy barding prevented it from rising on its hindquarters. Regardless, the captain was nearly thrown, and would have been had his steed not been sandwiched between two other massive destriers. Just as suddenly, his horse regained its composure, as if sensing help was on the way. A gap appeared in the wall, and The Torgon and Asēkhas rushed through it.

  Julich found himself screaming.

  Not in terror. But in joy.

  38

  AFTER TORG LEFT her, Laylah’s heart sank. When he disappeared into a crevice in the shield wall, the sorceress wanted to scream. Would this be the last time she ever saw him? She didn’t know. The uncertainty made it even worse.

  But Laylah didn’t have time to feel sorry for herself. Soon after Torg vanished, another wave of newborns and monsters emerged from the shield wall. Without the wizard and the Asēkhas to bring down the worst of them, the fighting was even more desperate. Laylah saw Rajinii strike down a Stone-Eater, cleaving its lumpy skull with the jade head of her oaken staff. Lucius and Bonny, transformed into hideous monsters, killed newborns one by one with their bare hands, though it wasn’t easy, even for them. Ugga was shouting, “Get him, little guy!” to Elu, and then the Svakaran jammed his Tugarian dagger into the visor of a newborn that had clambered onto the croup of their destrier.

  Still, among them all, Laylah wreaked the most havoc. Other than Torg’s sword, Obhasa was the most powerful weapon they possessed, its blue fire, laced with her white, blasting apart anything it struck. Not even the newborns were a match for it, and Laylah lost count of how many she slew. But it was at least five score.

  The fighting was fast and furious. A Warlish witch, mounted on a black mountain wolf almost as tall at the shoulder as Izumo, approached Laylah with murder in her hideous eyes. The witch bore a long wooden staff aflame with crimson magic, and she swung it at Laylah, who countered with Obhasa. When the two staffs met, there was a crackling conflagration.

  It was no contest. The witch’s staff burst asunder, and almost instantly she and the wolf were consumed in a flurry of blue-white flame.

  However, without the considerable aid of Torg and the Asēkhas, this ambush did not go as smoothly. At least fifty newborns still lived when the next wave entered the fray, and almost two hundred still survived when the wave after that poured through the shield wall. Laylah did her best to bring things back under control, increasing the ferocity of her attacks by showering dozens of newborns with fire that melted their metallic flesh.

  Though she estimated that more than five
thousand of the enemy had been slain, it still represented just a fraction of what remained. Fear took hold of her heart, but at the same time she felt a macabre sort of hope. If she died in battle, Invictus would not be able to harm her further. Disregarding her own safety, Laylah urged Izumo deeper into the fray.

  “Let them come!” she screamed, as she fought with a frenzy that surpassed the greatest of either side.

  WITH A SUDDEN halt to his whistling, Invictus shouted, “There!”

  This startled Ulaara. “My liege?”

  “There she is . . . I see her . . . her essence. Look at her. She has grown in power since she last was with me.”

  “I see nothing, my liege, other than a tangled mass of Adho Satta. Do you wish me to descend?”

  “Yes, you fool—she’s no good to me dead, though the way she acts around me she might as well be.”

  “My liege?”

  “Never mind. Go down! I’ll lead the way. If you skim along the ground, I might be able to scoop her up without us even having to land.”

  “As you command, my liege.”

  In a series of tight spirals, the black dragon plummeted more than fifteen hundred fathoms, finally skimming along the surface of the newborn horde.

  “Not here, you fool! There . . . there!”

  Ulaara twisted his neck and peered back just enough to see where the Sun God was pointing. Then he gained altitude and soared over the shield wall. As he did, hundreds of iron-spiked bolts from crossbows bounced harmlessly off his black scales, but a blast of blue-green energy clipped his tail, burning like acid and causing him to yelp.

  “Never mind that! Pay attention to me. Do you see her? So close!”

  Then Ulaara did see her, a vision in white with long black hair. But when he approached, Invictus squeezed the base of his neck with his thighs, spurting fiery agony into his shoulders.

  “Not her, you idiot! To your right . . . your right!”