by Jim Melvin
The rest of Mala’s dracools, eight in all, circled out of range of the Asēkhas’ slings. Bard loosed an arrow from the bow of Jord, and another baby dragon fell. After that, the remaining dracools flew so high they looked like black specks.
Elu led them to the far side of the ridge. Two Asēkhas were left behind to hold the narrow way. The others crossed over onto the steep back of a great mountain. Their company still was several thousand cubits from the summit, so the trees and foliage remained dense.
They came upon a stream littered with odd-shaped boulders. Foamy bursts of water coursed between gaps in the stone. The banks of the stream were lined with hemlocks and shrubs, and massive layers of gray-green rock anchored its bed, forming a series of small waterfalls and swirling pools.
They followed a game trail upstream along the right bank. The path was strewn with gnarled oak roots, making it difficult even for Torg and the remaining Asēkhas not to stumble. And where there were no roots, swaths of gooey mud took their place. At one point the immense Ugga sank almost to his knees, and it took two Asēkhas to pull him free.
The roar of the stream blocked out most other sound. They could not hear if the Asēkhas left behind were engaged in battle or if pursuit came from somewhere other than the ridge. The path and stream wound in tandem like a pair of snakes slithering side by side. At some places, their sight distance was limited to several hundred paces, making them feel entrapped and claustrophobic. But they rushed along the rolling bank as fast as they could, rising higher and higher. At times the canopy thickened so much it cut off most of the sunlight, ensconcing them in sparkling darkness.
The first sign of the enemy came when a Mogol arrow buried itself in a tree next to Lucius’ head. Several Asēkhas peeled off into the brush, and a short time later the rest of the company heard shouts. Elu led the rest of them tirelessly along the path, which suddenly turned left, crossing over the stream on a smooth stone floor that a sheet of rushing water made slick. Then the path rose abruptly up a steep bank and drew away from the stream until it was no longer visible, though they still could hear its roar.
The Asēkhas returned—without blood on their swords.
“The wolves and Mogols move too fast for us,” one of the warriors said. “They leap through the brush and brambles as easily as air. They must have found another way to approach. Many more have come, and they follow us on both sides, just out of sight. Even if we come upon an open place to meet them, we will be hard-pressed. The wolves are black and their fangs poisoned.”
Just then, a gigantic male wolf bearing a shrieking Porisāda warrior crashed through the trees and leapt at Lucius. Kusala shoved the smaller man aside but caught the full brunt of the wolf’s charge and was knocked backward into the brush. An instant later, a slew of uttaras pierced the wolf and the cannibal. The chieftain stood back up, more embarrassed than hurt.
“I thank you for saving my life,” Lucius said. Then he turned to Torg. “I think it’s time you armed Laylah and me, as promised.”
Torg agreed. A warrior gave Lucius an uttara, an even more precious gift than the firstborn probably realized, and Torg presented Laylah with his ivory staff.
“I’m afraid this is just a loan,” Torg said, a wiry smile on his lips. “Obhasa is dear to me, and I’ll have need of it in days to come, but for now I pray it keeps you safe. Use it like a stave. No matter what it strikes, it will not sunder. There is power in it that—combined with your own—will be difficult to withstand.”
“If I take your staff, what weapon will you wield?”
Torg drew the Silver Sword from the sheath beneath his cloak. “I will not be defenseless.”
More arrows fell upon them. The Asēkhas were able to hack most of them to pieces in midair, but one finally found a mark, striking Rathburt squarely in the back. His Tugarian flesh—though long untested in the field of battle—resisted penetration, and the arrow snapped and tumbled to the ground. Rathburt whined nonetheless, looping his long arms behind him to rub the sore spot.
Most of the Asēkhas re-entered the forest, attempting to chase off the closest pursuers. The rest of the company continued along the path, which curved to the right and approached the stream again. They crossed over on another slippery rock floor, and then the path rose upward. Oaks clung to the side of the bank, hanging so precariously they appeared ready to fall at any moment.
Roots stuck out of the path like hungry hands. Bard twisted his ankle and was limping. Rathburt had a complaint for every step. Lucius was hunched over, gasping for breath. Laylah also was exhausted, but Torg could tell she was doing her best not to show it. Elu, the smallest, and Ugga, the largest, appeared as tireless as the Asēkhas.
The bank continued to rise steeply above the stream, which now was fifty cubits below the path on their left. One false step could send any one of them tumbling onto the rocks below. Just when Torg felt they might have to stop and rest, the path suddenly smoothed out and became easier to traverse, and they were able to head northward away from the stream. In a short time, the air became noticeably warmer and the trees thinned out. Now it was bright and sunny, and they could see for a long way in all directions. The Asēkhas returned, and this time their swords were stained.
“We have killed many,” Podhana said. “But not enough. They have retreated, but it’s only a matter of time before they regroup and swarm upon us.”
“My lord, you told us you have a plan,” Kusala said. “We’re in need of one. I hope you will inform us soon.”
“I will, when the time is right,” Torg said. “But know this: The Asēkhas—all of them—will be needed elsewhere more than here. I’ve already lost Sōbhana; I don’t wish to lose any others. You must not die while defending us. When it becomes obvious you are outmatched, I want all of you to flee this place and regroup in Nissaya. And you, Kusala, will honor my original intentions.”
“Lately I rarely comprehend your mind,” the chieftain said, “but I never again will argue with you. It will be as you say.”
They raced along the trail, but their strength was fading. Through gaps in the surrounding foliage, they saw a series of snow-crowned mountains. The land ascended on their right and descended on their left, while the trail rose and fell wherever it desired. Purple crocuses grew out of piles of dead leaves. Brown moths clung to bare branches. They could no longer hear the roar of the stream. All was silent, except for their footsteps, their breaths and the sound of the wind rushing through the trees.
All at once the trail plunged into a thicket of tangled vines with long, nasty thorns. Elu, who until that point had been leading the way, came to a halt. He began to tremble and his dark skin grew pale.
“It’s just mountain laurel, little guy,” Bard said. “Harmless, it is.”
“Yes, but that’s not what Elu fears,” Rathburt said. “Something lurks within the laurel—the vines that nearly killed him before.”
“Badaalataa,” said the Svakaran, like he had seen a ghost.
As if in response to Elu’s terror, the howling began anew, but this time it was far louder. The vanguard of Mala’s army had arrived. The Chain Man, the Kojin and his other monsters would not be far behind. Soon escape would be impossible. Even in these narrow quarters, they would have to fight.
“Kusala, deter Mala for as long as you can,” Torg said. “But do not die. When you are overmatched . . . flee!”
The chieftain nodded, and he and the other Asēkhas raced down the path, retracing their steps.
36
Only seven remained: Torg, Laylah, Lucius, Rathburt, Ugga, Bard and Elu. Rathburt, of course, was the most bemused.
“What do we do?” he said, his slump more pronounced than ever. “Now will you tell us your plan, Torgon?”
“What do you think we should do?” Torg said to the only other living Death-Knower in the world.
“Me? Why ask me? You’re the hero.”
Just beyond their vision, they could hear the first sounds of fighting. The Asēkhas ha
d met the enemy. Torg ignored it. “These vines,” he said to Rathburt. “How dangerous are they?”
“How should I know? We need to run!”
“Rathburt, listen to me. Our survival depends on it. How dangerous are they? Can they kill an Asēkha? Can they kill you? Can they kill me?”
“Who cares? What does it matter? Can they kill one of your precious Asēkhas? Yes! Can they kill me? Yes. Can they kill you? Maybe. I don’t know. I don’t know!”
“Rathburt, listen to me. If the vines can kill us, then they also can kill the monsters who hunt us.”
“So what? We’re the ones who are trapped.”
Ugga interrupted. “I sees what Master Hah-nah is saying. Master Rad-burt has the power to control the vines. He did it before, when he saved little Elu. He can do it again. He can open the way.”
“Huh?” Rathburt said. “You’ve got to be joking. I could never . . .”
“If ya don’t, we’ll all die,” Bard said.
“Don’t be stupid,” Rathburt wailed. He turned to Laylah. “Give Torg back that staff, woman. He can burn a hole through the vines as wide as a processional.”
“I’m not sure I can,” Torg said, “but if I do . . .”
“. . . Mala will be able to follow,” Lucius finished.
“Forget it!” Rathburt said. “I’ve already been through this once . . . and once is enough. It’s not easy, you know. It hurts!”
The sounds of the battle grew ever closer. Torg could tell, just by listening, that the Asēkhas were struggling. An arrow whizzed by Rathburt’s head.
“Rathburt, LISTEN TO ME!” Torg pleaded. “You can do this. We will follow. Save us, my friend. Please . . .”
Tears sprang from Rathburt’s eyes, but he turned to face the vines and held his oaken staff aloft. At first nothing happened—and Torg began to wonder if his faith in the Death-Knower had been misplaced. But then the staff began to glow, and blue fire crawled along the shaft and spurted from its head, fanning outward over the laurel. The vines responded; black and ugly, they snapped like whips, tearing at each other in frustration. When Rathburt stepped off the path and into the thicket, the vines shied from him. He was their master.
“I believe the Badaalataa will stay back as long as my strength holds,” Rathburt said through clenched teeth. “But the ordinary laurel could care less. You’ll have to clear a path with your blades, but stay as close to me as you can. I can sense the Badaalataa’s fear—but also their hatred. And they’re very hungry.”
Torg and Ugga led the way, slashing and hacking with sword and axe. Elu was the last to leave the path, but his love for his companions gave him the courage to follow. By the time they were twenty paces off the trail, the vines had closed behind them, and they now were forced to proceed within a tight circle just large enough to protect all seven. Where Rathburt’s blue fire formed a dome over their heads, the vines dared not protrude.
Torg heard a piercing cry, so high-pitched that only his ears could detect it. A signal from Kusala. The Asēkhas were withdrawing.
A moment later, a dozen Porisādas and several druids burst down the path. A cave troll wielding an iron hammer as large as a man came next. The troll saw them first and stormed off the path in pursuit, but it made it only ten paces before the vines—enraged by their inability to consume the first set of intruders—closed around the huge beast. The troll howled in agony and fought with a sudden madness, but even its great strength was insufficient. The vines wrapped it up like a caterpillar in a cocoon and carried it away.
“Badaalataa! Badaalataa!” the Porisādas chanted. They knew the danger of the vines better than any living creature, and they dared not stray from the path. The druids also stayed back. Like Rathburt, they were masters of trees and plants, but Dhutanga—far to the west—was their stronghold, and they held no power over this threat.
Meanwhile, Torg and Ugga continued to clear a way through the ordinary vegetation. They progressed slowly but surely and were more than five hundred paces from the path when Mala and the Kojin appeared. For the first time since Dukkhatu had dragged him from the summit of Asubha, Torg heard the Chain Man’s annoying voice.
“After them, you filthy cowards. After them! Must I do everything?”
Other voices responded. Torg couldn’t discern what they were saying. But it was obvious the Chain Man didn’t like what he was being told.
“You’re afraid? Stand aside, you squirmy worms. I’ll hunt them down and kill them myself.”
Mala plunged into the laurel, inspiring the Kojin to join him. When they were a few steps off the trail, the Badaalataa attacked.
The Kojin was engulfed, torn off her feet, and hauled away almost as easily as the troll. Even her protective shield of magical energy was no match for the accumulated weight of the vines. But Mala was another matter. When the vines wrapped around his mammoth legs and drove their hungry thorns into his flesh, his chain responded with supernatural fury, spewing thick globules of molten fire. The vines withdrew—but only a few paces—and then danced around him, looking for any sign of weakness. Mala was enraged, but he wasn’t stupid. He backed out of the laurel and watched helplessly as his prey escaped.
“Aaaaarrrrgh!” was the last thing Torg heard him say.
Vines
37
The second floor of the ziggurat was dank and dark. In its farthest corner, a glass basin filled with a silvery liquid was balanced on a pedestal. Vedana leaned over the basin, the tips of her scraggly gray hair disrupting the smooth surface. She was long practiced in the art of scrying, and when she waved her hands, the liquid came colorfully to life.
“Look at them. My Badaalataa are so hungry! I might have to call them off.”
“Why would you want to, mother?” said Jākita-Abhinno, currently in her hideous form. “Let the vinessss have them. Good riddance to the Death-Knower, especially.”
“There are two Death-Knowers among them,” the mother of all demons said. “Don’t take that too lightly, though I admit the one you despise is the more powerful. He reminds me of Invictus, but both of them underestimate my connections. Besides, do you think I’d allow the father of my youngest child to perish? All kids need a daddy.”
Jākita snarled, and a drop of brown mucus slid out of one of her bulbous nostrils and plopped into the basin, sizzling like water in hot oil.
“I hate him, mother,” she said, in a raspy voice. “I sssso wish to end his life.”
“You’ll do no such thing without my permission. As I created the Badaalataa and enabled them to exist in the world of the living, so did I create you and your kind. Do you think I cannot destroy you and the other witches whenever I choose? Chal became too big for her tight britches, and look where it got her.”
Jākita sniveled and then curled into a ball on the floor at the demon’s feet. Several explosive flashes and gouts of black smoke later, she became her beautiful self.
“I’ll always obey your commandssss, mother. All I ask is that you leave him to me in the end.”
“I’ll do as I please, whore.”
Vedana returned her gaze to the magical basin, watching Torg, Laylah and the others move slowly through the laurel, entrapped by hectares of Badaalataa. Her perspective was like that of an eagle—or more accurately, a dracool. In fact, several baby dragons still hounded the seven companions from above. If the dracools were not eliminated, the damnable Mala would know where to find the wizard and sorceress once they emerged from the laurel. That would not do. For Vedana’s plan to succeed, Torg and Laylah had to remain alive and free, at least for the foreseeable future.
“I’ve created so many things,” Vedana mused. “The witches, vampires, trolls, ghouls . . . even the dragons. Did you know about the dragons, Jākita? Bhayatupa would scoff—talk about someone who’s too big for his britches—but it’s true. And after all these millennia, I have no intention of casting my efforts aside. Invictus will fall. And I will be free. Do you doubt me?”
“No, mother .
. . I do not. In fact, I desire your freedom as much as youuuu. If you are released from the darknessss, you will become Queen of the World, and the Warlish witches will thrive as your favorite servants. Tell me what to do, and I’ll do it. But youuuu must protect us from Invictus. If he discovers that we conspire against him, he will destroy Kamupadana and all who live within its wallssss.”
“Don’t worry too much about my grandson. His eyes are elsewhere. Invictus is obsessed with bedding his precious sister and pays scant attention to the rest of us. You should worry more about me! Your orders are to stay in the ziggurat and await my commands. I might need you again—and I might not. Either way, you’ll do as you’re told. If you don’t, I’ll blink my eyes and you’ll disappear.”
“Yessss, mother.”
Vedana grunted and then turned back to the basin. “Look at them run. Will they escape? The vines are so hungry. Should I intervene? Those troublesome dracools are always sticking their snouts where they don’t belong. Did I tell you that they taste like chicken?” She sighed. “I guess I’d better do something . . .”
When Vedana appeared among them in the guise of the raven, the dracools hardly noticed. But when it spoke to them, their stomachs turned to fire, and they fell from the sky.
The vines feasted on their ruined flesh.
38
To Laylah’s eyes it was clear that the slumped man was struggling. As dusk closed in, she and the others had advanced less than a league beyond the path. The swirling vines remained a palpable force, tormenting them with strange sounds—a blend of snapping fingers, creaking doors and howling winds. She was dismayed. If Rathburt succumbed, all of them would die.
“I don’t know how much longer I can last,” she heard him say to Torg. “They can sense I’m weakening—and there’s still a long way to go. The entire side of this mountain crawls with them. They extend for at least as far as we’ve already come.”