by Jim Melvin
“He’s no slouch,” Burly said. “He will find his way back to the White City. If only I could say the same.”
Now a trio, they rode northward together, Burly in Torg’s lap. Eventually, they reached the southern border of Dhutanga, entering without hesitation. A short while later they heard the humming of druids.
“Kattham has sensed the White City’s weakness and chosen to come herself to see to its destruction,” Burly said in a voice just loud enough for Torg to hear. “My guess is she is surrounded by all that remains of her army.”
“Which is large enough to defeat the defenders of Jivita?” Torg said.
Burly nodded. “Especially if the queen is near enough to wield her will. If the druids could carry her close to the northern gates, she could crush the White City with just the power of her mind.”
“She is not near enough yet,” the wizard said.
As if in response, Bhojja increased her speed, rushing into the forest so fast that the surrounding trees became a blur. The humming grew much louder, reminding Torg of the epic battle north of Jivita. Torg held the blade of the Silver Sword high and began to howl. Burly raised his wand and did the same.
They entered a cove as deep and broad as a canyon. Within it were ten thousand druids, their southward progress slowed by the bulbous bulk they were forced to heft. The trio approached like a bolt of lightning, tearing through the front-running druids with ease. Kattham was prepared to confront an army, but she had not perceived the threat of supernatural assassins. Before she could react, they were upon her.
Torg sprang off Bhojja and onto the druid queen’s back. He stood on the quivering white flesh, raised the Silver Sword above his head, and prepared to stab the point into Kattham’s flesh. But something stayed his hand, preventing the downward stroke. The druid queen had become aware of his presence just in time to defend herself, and her will once again held Torg in its grip.
BURLY’S POWER FAR outweighed his stature. The enchanter could hold his own against a Warlish witch or Stone-Eater, if the need was great enough. And now indeed it was.
When the wizard leapt upon Kattham Bunjako, the druids reacted quickly, first setting down her massive bulk and then swarming upon her flanks to attack Torg en masse. Burly, still aboard Bhojja, was forced to react just as fast. From his wand the enchanter unleashed a multicolored ring that encircled Torg like a palisade of sparkling fire. The druids drew back, unable to penetrate it despite the urgency to rescue their queen.
A portion of the druids turned on Burly and Bhojja, recognizing them as another danger. The mare battered the attackers with her powerful hooves, but not even she could hold off so many. She was forced to transform to Sakuna and take to the air with Burly on her back, flying over and landing inside the magical ring. Then she changed to Jord, causing the enchanter to fall off her back and roll next to Torg’s feet. The wizard remained frigid, his mind apparently tormented by unseen visions.
Burly felt his strength waning as the druids shoved nearer, using their combined weight to sag the magical ring inward. The enchanter doubted he could resist them much longer, but he understood that in order to free Torg from his torpor, he would need to somehow distract the queen from her assault on the wizard’s mind.
Using his tiny but strong arms, Burly drove his wand into the queen’s pale hide, while at the same time unleashing a bolt of magic capable of splitting the trunk of a tree. Though it was not nearly powerful enough to destroy Kattham, it caused enough internal injury to distract her from Torg for just a moment.
TORG SAT ALONE on a stone bleacher in the bowels of a titanic cavern, watching a show performed live on stage for his benefit. Vedana danced naked on a luxurious carpet. As she writhed, she spoke to him in a snarling voice: “What kind of idiot are you, anyway? How many times are you going to fall for the same old trick? The enchanter’s doing better than you, and he’s smaller than your arm.”
The foulness of her words stunned Torg. He tried to stand and flee the cavern, but he found that he could not move. Not only that, but his hands seemed to be floating above his head, and when he looked up at them, he saw with amazement that they gripped the tang of the Silver Sword. Beneath his feet, the milky stone quivered.
“Stab her, dammit,” Vedana cried. “Now’s your chance. Do I have to do everything?”
Vedana faded from sight, and Torg found that a ring of fire surrounded him. Standing next to him was Burly, his small round face slathered with sweat. Beneath his feet, Kattham writhed in angry panic.
For the third time in his life, the titanic will of a druid queen had overcome Torg. Almost a millennium ago, he had used Paramita to destroy Kattham’s mother. But that sword, though great, was nowhere near a match for the Silver Sword. With a downward movement too swift for the eye to follow, Torg punched the blade into the pale hide. Kattham let out a screech as loud as the boom of a passing dragon. Thousands of druids were cast back in a tangle of long, bony limbs.
Torg raised the sword and stabbed again.
To Kattham, the supernal blade acted like poison, causing her body to bloat like a decaying corpse—and then explode in a splash of fleshy debris. But not before Sakuna had taken Torg and Burly in her talons and sprang upward. Gooey chunks showered all three, coating the eagle’s feathers and forcing her to crash-land into the upper branches of a yellow poplar, one of the last of its kind to grow so deep within Dhutanga. Burly would have fallen, but Torg caught one of his tiny legs and set him down in the crook of a thick branch. Sakuna transformed to Jord, her usually impeccable hair an oily mess. Then the unlikely trio watched what unfolded below.
Torg wasn’t sure what to expect. When he had killed Kattham’s mother, the druids had lost focus and wandered aimlessly, like creatures bleeding to death with no way to close their wounds—only it had been their psychic essence draining away, not their physical. This time, as Jord had predicted, the druids reacted differently. The larger ones, of which there were a few hundred among the thousands, apparently had wills of their own and minds capable of independent thought, and they herded their smaller cousins away from the remains of the carcass.
At first, it appeared that the druids might join forces and clamber up the tree to attack Torg and his companions; instead, they pressed together and proceeded northward, abandoning the shredded queen. As they marched, their humming resumed. But this time it felt far less threatening.
“Sounds like a church choir during warm-ups,” Burly said, wiping goo from his bushy eyebrows.
Jord nodded. “You have paid the first debt,” she said to Torg. “Life has been appeased. The druids are free.”
“Why would they be free?” Torg said. “Another queen will arise and take Kattham’s place.”
Jord shook her head. “The Vijjaadharaa have seen to it that this will not occur. This, at least, is within our power. The druids will never again be able to reproduce, and all will eventually die, but at least they will now live as free beings.”
Torg found that he did not really care, either way. Suddenly he felt exhausted—and so weak with hunger he could barely cling to the branch. “What now?” he said, stifling a yawn. “Finally, do we go to Avici?”
“Not yet,” Jord said. “First we must journey to Jivita, where you can eat, sleep, and regain some strength.”
“There’s no time for sleep,” Torg said.
“Peta’s vision foresaw a visit to the White City.”
“And what of Laylah?”
“Trust us, Torg . . . trust me. Really, what choice do you have?”
“I trust her,” Burly said to Torg. Then he looked at Jord and smiled. “How fast can you carry us to Boulogne’s? After all this, I could drink an entire barrel of Tugarian nectar myself. And I’m not exaggerating.”
Torg sighed. “Very well. Take us then. It appears I continue to be at your mercy. I can only hope that Laylah will forgive me for taking so long to reach her.”
65
BY THE TIME TORG, Burly, and Bhojja approach
ed the northern gate of Jivita, it was less than a bell before dawn. But the quarter moon provided enough light to see for a considerable distance. The silhouettes of half a dozen guards were visible on the narrow battlement.
“I do not wish to cause a stir,” Torg whispered.
Immediately, Bhojja came to a halt and urged them to dismount. Then she transformed to Sakuna and allowed them to climb onto her back before soaring over the wall and interior plains. The great mountain eagle eventually landed on the rooftop of Boulogne’s, where it transformed to Jord.
Torg took Burly in his arms and leapt effortlessly to the floor of the alley below. Jord also made the jump without incident. Soon they were inside the tavern, which was dark and deserted. Burly lit an oil lamp and then went about the business of preparing a meal. Though he was small, he was surprisingly strong and could manage most tasks without aid, if he so desired.
In a short time, Torg and the enchanter were eating pickled goat meat, dried apples, and brown bread. The bread was stale but still edible, if you removed bits of mold. Far better than the food was the drink: Tugarian nectar, sweet and potent. Torg drank more than his share, though Burly’s level of consumption was impressive, given his size. Jord sipped the wine with apparent disinterest.
“Don’t you ever eat?” Burly said to her.
“I am capable of it and sometimes even enjoy it,” Jord said. “The grasses of the Green Plains are especially delicious. But the only thing truly necessary for the continuance of my physical existence is small amounts of water. Otherwise, my sustenance comes from elsewhere.”
“But you are capable of enjoying it? Then do so, my lady. You’re at Boulogne’s,” Burly said, topping off her goblet with nectar.
Despite his constant distress over Laylah’s imprisonment, Torg found himself barely able to keep his eyes open. Only a few times in his life had he been so exhausted. Though Rathburt had heroically restored Torg’s body, remnants of Invictus’s spell lingered, causing Torg to feel sick and sluggish.
“Torgon, there is time for sleep,” Jord said in a whisper.
“I mustn’t . . .” Torg murmured.
“If you do not rest your body, you will be unable to perform the tasks necessary to destroy Invictus and free Laylah.”
“She’s right,” Burly said. “There are several rooms upstairs with beds large enough to accommodate you, if you curl up a bit. Come with me . . . we both shall sleep.”
“I sense the presence of Asēkhas,” Torg said. “Until now, I have hidden my return from the Tugars, but it is time that I speak with those who have come to the White City.”
“Sleep, Torgon,” Jord said. “I will alert the Asēkhas. When you awaken, they will be here to greet you.”
Eventually, Torg did succumb, though he was utterly disoriented when he finally woke. He lay on a soft mattress in a dark room, and when he stood and spread open the curtains, blinding light caused him to stagger. For a frightening moment he believed that Invictus had found him and was blasting him with sorcery, but then he realized it was nothing more than ordinary sunlight. Amazingly, it was late afternoon.
A female voice startled him.
“Lord Torgon, forgive my intrusion . . .”
Torg turned to see Vikkama standing in the doorway. The heavily muscled yet beautiful female always had been one of his favorites. She might well become chieftain one day. “Abhinandanena te garukaromi (I greet you with great joy),” the king of Anna said.
Vikkama bowed. “Beyond hope, my lord, you have returned to us. The Faerie has described the miracle performed by Lord Rathburt, who shall forever be regarded among the greatest of the great.”
Torg sighed mournfully. “He would have scoffed at such words.”
“Nonetheless, they are true,” Vikkama asserted.
“I agree . . . far more than you realize. And my grief . . . my grief . . .”
The Asēkha stepped into the room and clasped forearms with her king. Her strength amazed Torg. Among the Viisati, only Kusala, Tāseti, Podhana and Rati had been as robust. Even then, Vikkama was a weakling when compared to Torg—and recognized it, bowing her head in obeisance.
Still, she found the courage to question him, if only haltingly. “Lord, we experienced your demise. Why did you not alert us of your resurgence?”
Her boldness did not displease Torg, but neither did he have time for an interrogation. “My reasons are my own. What has the Faerie told you of the fate of Kattham?”
“We have been made aware of the queen’s fall,” Vikkama said. “And the enchanter told us that you have been informed of Nīsa’s whereabouts.”
Torg permitted himself a brief smile. “I am pleased that you chose to allow Nīsa to perform this duty. It suits him. I sense that much good will come of it.”
Vikkama bowed again. “What are your orders, Lord Torgon?” she said. “Might I and the Asēkhas join you on your journeys? It would be our greatest joy to do so.”
To Torg’s surprise Jord appeared in the doorway, looking ravishing in a hooded gown made of silk dyed the color of jade. “Lord Torgon,” the Faerie said, “may I answer that question?”
Torg nodded.
Jord turned to Vikkama. “Soon there will be a great event that will change the world. Jivita will feel its effects, as will all of Triken. The White City will need strong minds and bodies, if it is to survive without major harm. I suggest that you and the four Asēkhas you command remain in Jivita. Besides, where Torg will soon go, you will be of little value. Only Torg is capable of walking the paths that will rescue this world—and others—from the threat of Invictus.”
Vikkama appeared distressed, but she turned to Torg. “Lord?”
“Remain,” Torg said. Then he sensed motion in his peripheral vision.
Burly had entered the room and was leaping upon the nearby bed. “And what of me?” he squealed. “Must I stay, as well?”
Jord responded again. “Only Torg is capable of walking these paths,” she insisted sternly.
Torg shrugged. “I am at her mercy, Burly. As are we all.”
Burly crossed his tiny arms and grunted. Then, slowly, he smiled. “I suppose it’s for the best. When it comes to dealing with Navarese, the Asēkhas will need my assistance. It is better I stay, if for no other reason than that. But you must promise me one thing, Torgon. If you and your lovely queen somehow survive these ordeals, you will return to the White City and pay me a visit.”
“It will be our pleasure,” Torg said, and then he went about the business of preparing to leave.
It was near dusk before he and Jord departed the White City. From the rooftop of Boulogne’s, Jord transformed into Sakuna and launched into the sky, soaring to the upper heights and then heading toward Lake Hadaya. Though the night was clear, an indomitable easterly wind buffeted the incarnated mountain eagle, and Torg soon recognized that he wasn’t the only one who was exhausted. Sakuna tried varying the heights at which she flew, but it seemed to make little difference. Finally, she almost fell from the sky, landing awkwardly only a dozen leagues east of Jivita.
When she transformed back to her human incarnation, she coughed, gasped, and shivered like an ordinary person. Eventually, she regained her composure enough to speak. “I have existed among the mortals of this planet for millennia beyond count. Now my time grows short. Soon I will rejoin the Vijjaadharaa in the Realm of Death. But I still have tasks to perform before I abandon the confines of this world.”
“There is no need to test your strength so severely on my account,” Torg said. “Tell me where to go and what to do, and I will find a way without you.”
Jord chuckled wearily. “As always you humble me, Death-Knower. As do most living beings. The suffering you endure . . .” Then she lowered her head. “I told you and Burly that I need little sustenance, but that is not entirely true. I do need rest, even if it is to depart this realm for a short time to rejuvenate. I should have done this while you slept, but I had business to attend to.”
�
�Burly could have found someone else to alert the Asēkhas.”
“That was a trivial task. What I did while you slept was beyond that.”
“Aaaah,” Torg said. “In other words, Vedana needed you for something.”
Jord did not respond. Instead, she sat down in the grass and shivered some more. Even Torg had to admit that the spring night had become chilly.
“Torgon?” said Jord, her voice gentle and trembling. “Do you blame me for what has occurred?”
Torg sat down next to her. At first he didn’t answer. Finally he said, “No . . .”
Jord smiled, but the tears in her eyes betrayed her true emotions. “I’m cold. Will you hold me? I know that you belong to Laylah, and I would demand nothing unseemly. But if you hold me for just a little while, I believe my strength will return.”
“And Laylah?” Torg failed to hide the bitterness in his voice. “Who holds her?”
Jord sighed. “There is still hope, if you can find room in your heart for trust.”
Torg curled his upper lip in annoyance, but at the same time he recognized her sincerity. Then he did take Jord in his arms, and they sat together in the grass, the side of her face nestled against his chest. Jord’s breathing slowed dramatically and then came to a halt. Torg witnessed firsthand how his own body must appear during his episodes of Sammaasamaadhi. Torg counted four hundred of his own long breaths before Jord bolted upright, as if an unexpected noise had awakened her from a deep sleep. By now it was nearly dawn.
Jord stood and stretched, her gestures so much like a living being’s that Torg found it difficult to believe otherwise.
“I was gone but have returned,” she said cheerfully. “I feel so much better. I can bear you again, if you will permit me to do so. But I would rather run than fly.”
“Does Avici remain our destination?” Torg said.
But the white-haired woman was no longer present to answer. Instead, the great jade mare stood in her place—huge, powerful, and mysterious.