by Jim Melvin
“The why is obvious,” Rati said. “It appears that Mala is not the only one of his kind to be forced into violence by Invictus’s evil. The snow giants want vengeance.”
“We know that word well,” Bruugash said.
They soon discovered that both sides of the passageway were lined with these depressions—and each contained a mashed body of one species or another. The carnage sickened even the war-hardened Asēkhas.
Suddenly Tew spoke in a loud voice, startling even the chieftain. “If I had known . . . if I had been allowed to see this, I never would have done what I did. I’m sorry, I swear!”
“Known what?” Podhana said.
“These were the birthing chambers of the golden soldiers,” Tew said sadly. “In each of these depressions, a Daasa would writhe and perish so that a soldier could be born. I heard many rumors of this, but such things are better left to the whims of your superiors. I wasn’t about to cause no trouble asking about it.” Tew sighed deeply. “Apparently the snow giants who came here before we arrived also recognized this and decided to . . . well, you can see what they decided to do.”
This was met by a hush. The weight of such horror seemed to paralyze them. The silence was broken not by them, but by eerie mewling sounds coming from farther down the passageway. Podhana drew a lighted torch from the stone wall and started forward.
“Detha vo anuttaram odahanam (Attain supreme attention),” Podhana said to the others.
Uttaras were drawn in a series of sparkling whisks. The small company continued forward, looking this way and that. The groaning grew louder and more disturbing. Podhana had never heard such a sound. He found himself moaning in response.
“I’m not sure I can go any farther,” Dhītar said. “I can’t bear to see what lies beyond.”
“You may stay here,” Podhana said. “But without guard.”
“Come,” Tew said to her, “we’ll face whatever it is together.”
Around a bend, they came to the end of the passageway. A pair of huge bronze doors—undamaged by fist or sorcery—stood slightly ajar before them. Golden light poured from within. Podhana found that even he had no desire to discover what lay beyond.
But he was Asēkha. Retreat was not an option.
Podhana opened one door, Rati the other. Inside was a room like neither had seen before. Large flasks, bottles, and tubes—all made of thin glass—were arranged haphazardly on the mottled surfaces of long metal tables. Within these translucent containers, water boiled, acids hissed, and horrid blobs of flesh swam in the viscous marinades. Much of the glass had been broken and its contents dumped, as if the room recently had been the scene of a wicked struggle. The floor was slick and disgusting. Dhītar leaned over and vomited.
“There is no shame,” one of the Asēkhas said to her.
“Thank you,” she rasped and then vomited again.
Now the groaning sounds were even louder, and they came from somewhere deep within the chamber—beyond the tables, bottles, and saturated flesh. Even Podhana felt afraid.
He and his companions stumbled upon the snow giants almost unexpectedly. There were three, including Deva, sitting on the cold floor and positioned like the vertices of a triangle. Their heads were lowered, their arms interlaced upon each other’s shoulders. Each of the titanic beings was sobbing.
Podhana moved toward the three great creatures, sheathing his uttara out of respect as much as fear. If the snow giants noticed his approach, they did not show it.
“Deva?” Podhana said in almost a whisper. And then louder: “Deva?”
Deva the Wanderer, who had once been Mala, tilted his head slightly upward. His eyes, swollen and bloodshot, focused on the Asēkha chieftain. “You . . . should . . . leave.”
Podhana took another step—and then stopped. “I will not.”
A snow giant, slightly smaller than Deva, lifted his head. “Tvam na icchito. (You are not wanted.)”
And the third, a female, said, “Tvam siyā hato. (You might be harmed.)”
“I will not leave,” Podhana repeated.
And then another voice rose, from behind him. But this one filled Podhana’s heart with hope. “Step aside, chieftain. I love you much, but this is beyond you.”
Podhana turned . . . ever so slowly.
From the darkness, The Torgon approached. With him came his lady. And beside her, the Faerie named Jord, her green eyes aglow.
10
BACK IN THE Tent City called Anna, the dissipation of the great darkness was greeted with joy.
“Obhāso punāgato, mangalo ca tatto. (Light has returned, blessed and warm),” Aya said in the ancient tongue. “Anumodeyyāma tathārūpam pābhatam. (We should not discount such a gift.)”
“Kim no kareyyāsi kātum? (What would you have us do?)” the Tugars said in unison. Aya was pleased to see that even Nimm and Ura had joined in the chanting.
“The sorcerer is no longer,” Aya said. “And The Torgon still lives, or so we believe. When our people return from the wars, there will be more reason for celebration. Though our numbers are small, we have little to fear. Let us put forth all our efforts in returning Anna to its former glory. When our king arrives . . . and our queen . . . I wish to be prepared.”
“Ema! Ema!”
And so, the Tent City was made ready for the return of its king.
11
WHEN THE DARKNESS went away, Jivita surged back to life. Navarese returned to his former self, giving orders to everyone within hearing distance, but there was gentleness in his demeanor that had not been there before. The general met often with Archbishop Bernard, and the pair was seen walking together in the fields. Vikkama found this as amazing as anything she had witnessed since Torg’s encounter with Mala in Dibbu-Loka the previous summer.
Now that Invictus was dead and his army was in ruins, the White City again was a safe haven. According to Burly, the druids also were no longer a threat. Navarese already had sent soldiers to the havens with orders for the citizens of Jivita to return. In a few short weeks, the White City would be teeming with hundreds of thousands. The services of Vikkama and the four Asēkhas with her were no longer needed. It was time to return to Anna. Perhaps they could all look forward to an era of peace—and growth. Even Vikkama believed that she was ready to bear a child. And she had thought of the perfect mate: Chieftain-Podhana.
On the second day of full sunlight, Vikkama and the Asēkhas sat in Boulogne’s and guzzled Tugarian nectar. All five had drunk so much that even their furnace-like metabolisms could not ward off the effects of the alcohol. And what was so wrong with that? The war was won, the sorcerer destroyed, and Jivita made safe. After all the suffering, they had earned the right to some relaxation.
Vikkama drank to the memory of the many tens of thousands who had died, including several thousand Tugars. Suddenly, the muscular female leaped to her feet, towering over the others. Her voice boomed throughout the small room. “Tumhe marittha bahuumaanena ca vikkamena. N’atthi uttara pasamsaa. (You died with honor and bravery. There is no higher praise.)”
“Ema! Ema!” the other Asēkhas chanted, requiring no explanation for Vikkama’s unplanned outburst.
The next to speak was Burly, who stood on the table next to Vikkama. The enchanter’s squeaky words were slurred. “Asēkhas, I sense your desire to depart—and I beg a favor of you. Please take me with you. I am a wanderer! And I wish to visit Tējo at least once before all is said and done.”
Vikkama was delighted, but also dubious. “Burly, you have the wisdom of a king and the strength of a giant . . . but when it comes to nectar, a single sip turns you into a simpering fool. Am I to believe that you will still wish to join us once you sleep this off?”
Burly wrapped his arms around a mug half as tall as himself and took several gulps that were quite impressive by Gillygaloo standards
. Then he burped. “Hmmph! You underestimate me, Vikkama. I can drink every bit as much as you—and more!” Then he burped again and sat down on his rump.
The Asēkhas burst into laughter. It was a sweet sound. Vikkama leaned on her elbows and positioned her nose within a finger-length of Burly’s round face.
“Master Enchanter,” she said, “I could think of nothing that would please me more than your company. And The Torgon and Queen Laylah will be overjoyed to see you again, I’m sure.”
“It may even be that they’ll need my help,” Burly said. Then his eyes rolled to the back of his head, and he fell with a thump onto the gnarled tabletop. Immediately, he began to snore.
The Asēkhas laughed so hard they almost passed out themselves.
12
INVICTUS WAS DEAD. To Lucius, it meant that he was free . . . that Bonny was free . . . that the Daasa were free.
Then Bonny spoke up, surprising Lucius with yet another unexpected revelation. “I feel something else,” she said. “The One God has blessed us, Lucius; we are who we once were.”
“What does she mean?” Nīsa said.
Lucius laughed. “It means . . . it means, Asēkha . . . that even you should not take us too lightly.”
“Yes . . . Yes!” Bonny screamed, and then she backed away and danced within the darkness, unafraid of going astray.
Nīsa remained confused. This made Lucius laugh all the more.
Not long after that, they reached the shipyard. Though the torchlit harbor town was filled with brigands and villains, the firstborn and his companions strode into it without fear. Any who dared oppose them were swept aside. Choosing to transform, Lucius and Bonny stood as tall as trolls, and the Daasa, again able to transform, were as strong as an army ten times their number. And Nīsa . . . well . . . was Asēkha.
On the day that the darkness finally receded and an overcast sky greeted the world, Lucius Annaeus and his companions commandeered a long-hulled galleon and a reluctant crew, which joined them more out of terror of the Daasa than anything else. The ship’s bones were worn and wrinkled, but improvements had been added to her frame to maintain her seaworthiness. She would do.
The Daasa rushed aboard without hesitation—and they pointed their pink snouts toward the massive expanse of salt sea.
It was obvious to all that the wondrous creatures wanted to go home.
13
AT NOON OF THE most beautiful spring day the Death-Knower had ever seen, Torg and Laylah climbed onto Bhojja’s back and left behind the House of Jord. Torg carried the Silver Sword in a scabbard on his back, as well as a skin of water and a small pack of food. Laylah held Obhasa in her right hand. The great jade mare sprang into a gallop that far surpassed the fastest stallion. Leagues passed in flashing moments, and both Torg and Laylah were lulled into sleep.
The clattering of hooves on stone woke them in the late afternoon. Bhojja had leapt the Golden Wall and was carrying them through the streets of Avici. Cheering Tugars ran alongside.
Dalhapa emerged from an alleyway, her uttara dripping dark blood. Bhojja slid to a sparking halt and cantered over to the young Asēkha.
“Lord Torgon, well met!” Dalhapa shouted. “And you bring with you our queen.”
Laylah smiled and nodded.
“Well met,” Torg repeated. Then added: “Your blade . . .”
Dalhapa flicked off the blood. “Invictus transformed the citizenship of Avici into an army of fiends,” she explained. “Some still run amok, but far fewer than before. As far as we can tell, Invictus intended to spare none of his people, though we have found a few thousand ordinary folk cowering in closets and basements.”
Torg’s face grew sad. For a time he sat in silence. Finally, he said, “Where is Podhana? I must speak to him.”
“The chieftain has gone with the rest of the Asēkhas and Tugars to Kilesa. A company of Pabbajja marches with them. They are led by the snow giant.”
Torg gasped. “The snow giant . . . Deva?”
“Yes, lord. He survived the collapse of the tower. We rescued him from beneath the rubble, though that might be exaggerating things a bit. I’m sure he eventually would have found his way to the surface on his own.”
“Why did they go to Kilesa?” Laylah said.
“It was the snow giant’s desire,” Dalhapa said.
“We will go there,” Torg said, “and see what we shall see.”
“And what would you have us do in your absence?” Dalhapa said.
“Continue to scour the city and surrounding countryside. Let no fiend escape.”
“As you command.”
Without prompting, Bhojja raced away and passed first into the valley so that Torg and Laylah could witness the ruins of Uccheda. Laylah, especially, was stunned. Somehow the giant sycamore had survived the tower’s collapse, but it had lost most of its leaves, and those that remained on its branches were golden.
“How did Deva manage to escape being crushed?” Laylah said to Torg.
“When it comes to snow giants, nothing seems impossible.”
Bhojja headed eastward on the Golden Road, again reaching supernatural speed. The threesome arrived at Kilesa just after dusk. The sky was clear and filled with stars, though the tiny sliver of moon had already set. The mare thundered down a maze of streets and alleyways, finally approaching a large group of Tugars gathered outside a pair of broken doors. Bhojja bade her riders to dismount, and then she transformed into Jord and adorned herself in magical robes.
The trio entered and descended the passageway. Desert warriors led them past the carnage to the metal platforms, and the three of them plunged into darkness before emerging in the birthing chambers of the newborns. When they came upon Podhana and the snow giants, Torg felt his heart implode.
“I will not leave!” the chieftain was saying.
Torg strode forward. “Step aside, chieftain. I love you much, but this is beyond you.”
Podhana turned slowly, and there was joy in his eyes. “Lord,” he said, and then he bowed and backed away.
Slowly Torg came nearer. The three snow giants sat cross-legged on the floor, leaning their torsos forward so that the tops of their heads almost touched. Deva looked at Torg and winced.
“It pleases me that you still live,” the snow giant whispered. “But you must leave . . . all of you. Bhari’s loss weighs heavily on us. When Gambhira and Sampakk came after her, they stopped here first—and became so . . . enraged . . . that . . .”
“We did not believe evil such as this”—the female gestured about the room—“was possible.”
“Violence begets violence,” the male said. “The Himamahaakaayos have been revealed as imperfect beings.”
“None among us—not even the snow giants—are perfect . . . unless they achieve enlightenment,” Torg said. “Do not be so harsh on yourselves. The evil brought into this world by Invictus was especially vile. You were forced to step out of Santapadam (the Path of Peace) and become warriors. The snow giants might never again be what they once were. But it remains possible for you to go on with your lives in honorable fashion. Time heals all wounds.”
“Perhaps we do not deserve to be healed,” Sampakk said, her voice low but dangerous.
Gambhira began to whimper. “We deserve only despair.”
To Torg’s surprise, Laylah strode within an arm’s length of the snow giants.
“Don’t be fools!” she said venomously. “Try to imagine what I’ve gone through. Or worse yet, what Deva has endured. Yes . . . killing’s no fun. Yes . . . you’re not perfect. But Torg’s right: Time does heal all wounds. All wounds!”
The snow giants leapt to their feet. Deva attempted to step between them and the sorceress, but Gambhira shoved him aside and towered over Laylah. Torg drew the Silver Sword, and the Asēkhas closed around her, their
uttaras gleaming in the artificial light. But Laylah was not intimidated. The snow giants were great, but so was she.
“Strike me, if you dare,” she challenged. “But I am not your enemy.”
Gambhira raised his hand and made a fist, but then his face twisted, and he collapsed to his knees. Instead of hitting her, the snow giant wrapped Laylah in his arms, not to crush her, but to take solace in her embrace. In response, Obhasa glowed blue-white, enveloping the sorceress and snow giant in a magical light. Sampakk placed her hand on Gambhira’s shoulder, and her body also shimmered.
“You are a healer,” Torg said to Laylah, causing her to smile.
Deva smiled too, but there was little joy in it. “Death-Knower, it is time I . . . we . . . returned to Okkanti. It will be long before any of us will again dare to wander from the heights.”
WHEN TORG TOLD Laylah that she too was a healer, she felt a swell of pride. Indeed, the snow giants had reacted well to her embrace, rising out of their sublimity as if her touch enamored them. But she was disturbed as well as pleased. Some of her magic had been white and some blue—but another part had been golden. Even from her womb, her baby wielded power. And though his birth was distant, the boy already seemed to have a mind of his own.
Laylah, Torg, and the others emerged from the catacombs, left the crowded streets of Kilesa, and entered a barren field north of the Sister City. There they ascended stairwells that led to the battlement of the Golden Wall and watched as the three snow giants sprinted into the darkness. The southwestern ridge of Okkanti, barely visible in the starlight, loomed in the far distance.
Jord glowed, as if on fire. The Tugars sang sad songs. And the Pabbajja launched bolts of magic into the sky from their tridents. Laylah had never seen anything more beautiful—or morose. She couldn’t help but cry.
Torg wrapped his arm around her slim shoulders and leaned against her.