by Jim Melvin
The small black blob wobbled. “It is . . . but you must be strong.”
“When have I ever not been strong?” Torg said. “Lead me, then. I am ready.”
In response, Peta appeared before him in her ghost-child incarnation. Then she took his hand and guided Torg farther into the Realm of the Undead. They turned this way and that as they ascended and descended, as if wandering through a house with many floors and even more mysteries. But never were they in total darkness. The Silver Sword saw to that.
“They don’t like the blade,” she said, gesturing toward the demons.
“That is obvious. But why do they fear it so much?”
“It is older than they. Its substance is from the original creation.”
“How do you know these things?”
“I can see.”
“You sound like Tathagata.”
Peta smiled. “What a marvelous thing to say.” Then her expression grew serious. “We’re almost there. Are you ready?”
“I am.”
When Torg saw his father, he almost swooned. Jhana lay motionless on a silky carpet of darkness, his eyes clamped shut. Peta and Torg knelt before him.
“Is he—”
“Still alive?” Peta said. “Yes.”
“It’s been centuries.”
“Centuries in your realm, but not here. To Jhana, it has felt like just a short while.”
“He’s not breathing.”
“Father, don’t be silly . . . you don’t need to breathe in here.”
Torg reached down and tenderly brushed his father’s brow with his left hand. Jhana’s face was beautiful. “Why does he not respond?”
“He will awaken . . . when he is returned to the light.”
“What should I do?”
“First, give me the sword.”
Torg felt a hint of distrust rise within him, but he fought it back and then did as he was told. Though she was small, Peta hefted the weapon with little effort.
“Now, pick him up and follow me.”
Again Torg did as he was told. Jhana felt heavy, but no heavier than any large Tugar. The walk out seemed shorter than the walk in. Before long, they were near the portal that led to the bowels of Bakheng.
“Laylah awaits you, Father. Please tell her goodbye for me.”
“Must it be like this?”
“You once rescued me from terrible pain. Now you must free me from this terrible place. If you don’t, I will linger here for eons. Would you wish such a fate upon me?”
“No . . . for you, I wish only joy.”
Torg lay Jhana down on the black floor.
Peta smiled and then passed the Silver Sword back to him. “Do not despair, Father. I will feel nothing except the sweetness of freedom.”
“It seems I am always losing you.”
“Such is life. You know that as well as I.”
“It hurts . . . nonetheless.”
“Yes. But it need not be so.”
Torg nodded. Then he raised the glowing blade above his head. “Ready . . . little daughter?”
She smiled her beautiful smile. “Never have I been more ready.”
“Is this the last time I’ll have to do this?”
“The last time . . . as far as I know.”
Torg sighed. Then he swept the blade down with his powerful arms. The Silver Sword took her head. Black essence spewed from the base of her neck. Her small body sizzled, then vanished. This time, Peta was truly gone.
Saddened and yet relieved, Torg slid the sword into the scabbard on his back. The illumination lessened, but not so much that he couldn’t see. Again he lifted his father’s body in his arms. The portal was only a few steps away.
Torg could see Laylah and Obhasa in the passageway beyond. It was as if he were looking at her from underwater. There were figures beside her, but he feared not for her safety. Few in Triken were powerful enough to threaten her now.
When he stepped through the portal, Laylah’s face brightened. Torg also recognized Dammawansha and Podhana—and beyond those three were more Tugars. Laylah approached him timidly, her face especially pale.
“Jhana?” she said, looking down at the motionless body.
“Yes.”
Podhana gasped and then knelt. The other Tugars near enough to hear did the same. Still kneeling, the chieftain raised his head. His voice was filled with awe. “Pitā vinattho upaladdho (The lost father has been found.)”
“Is he alive?” Laylah said.
“Indeed,” Torg said.
“But I thought . . .”
“In the Realm of Undeath, time passes more slowly. Apparently, Vedana held him in her kingdom—as a slave . . . or trophy.” Then he smiled at Laylah tenderly. “Yet in the end, joy arises from sorrow. My queen, will you follow me to the surface?”
“I will follow you anywhere, my king.”
“Ema . . . Ema . . .” Podhana and several other Tugars chanted.
Dammawansha nodded. “I will see to it that a place is prepared.” Then the High Monk raced away with surprising nimbleness.
Torg started forward. The passageway was so narrow he had to turn sideways so as not to scrape Jhana’s scalp against the stone. After taking a couple of steps, he heard Laylah gasp, and he twisted around to see what was the matter. Laylah was pointing toward where the portal had been. Now it was gone. Torg doubted it would ever open again—at least in this place.
When he strode between the massive stone lyons, it amazed Torg to see that it was midmorning in the Realm of Life. Before him stood more than a thousand men and women, most of whom were Tugars but some of whom were noble ones, their shaved heads beaded with sweat beneath the hot summer sun. A nun rushed forward and knelt in front of the Death-Knower then raised her head and stared into his face. Her eyes were filled with tears.
“Nimm is gone,” she said. It was not a question.
Torg recognized her. The nun was Ura, the woman who had taken Nimm under her wing.
“She is gone, but there was no pain,” Torg said. Then he added, “You have chosen well.”
Ura smiled proudly. “The High Monk ordained me.”
“May you be well, peaceful, and happy,” Torg said.
On the northeast side of Bakheng, two hundred steps led to a balcony near the pinnacle of the three-tiered pyramid. Though Jhana weighed more than twenty stones, Torg carried him effortlessly up the harrowingly steep ascent. Laylah followed immediately behind. Then came Podhana, several other Asēkhas, and several score Tugars and noble ones. Dammawansha already was on the balcony, and upon it he had laid a heavy rug, white as a snow giant’s mane. Torg knew that he had taken it from the meditative shrine at the top of the stairs. Only the senior monks and nuns were permitted to sit upon it.
“I am honored,” Torg said to the High Monk.
“The honor belongs to us,” Dammawansha responded.
Torg laid his father on the blanket. Podhana, Rati, and Vikkama encircled Jhana, using their massive bodies to shield him from the sun.
But their king had other ideas. “Step back. For too long has he been forced to slumber in darkness.”
“As you command, Maranavidu,” they said in unison.
When they moved away, bright sunlight bathed Jhana’s handsome face, and his eyes, though still closed, squinted. It was the first movement of any kind Torg had witnessed since first seeing him. There was an audible gasp from the nearest Tugars, and Torg realized that he too had gasped.
“I see where you got your good looks,” Laylah said, in an attempt to lighten the mood.
It worked.
The Tugars laughed loudly.
And Jhana opened his eyes.
Torg knelt. “Father! Can you hear me?” Th
en he placed his hands behind Jhana’s head and shoulders and lifted him into a sitting position.
“My son? Where am I?”
“Father,” Torg said. And then despite his best efforts to remain strong, the greatest Death-Knower to ever live pressed his face against Jhana’s chest and burst into tears. “Father . . . Father . . .” was all he could say.
“Torg? What’s wrong? Why are you crying?” Then he looked around, perplexed. “Who are these people? I see Tugars . . . Asēkhas . . . but I don’t know their names.”
Torg looked up—and when he did, Jhana tenderly wiped the tears from his cheeks. Torg took his father’s trembling fingers in his hand and kissed them.
Then he said, “I have much to tell.”
“You always have much to tell.”
This was greeted by robust laughter from all who stood nearby.
Torg helped Jhana to his feet and then gazed into his face. “I have much to tell,” he repeated. “Not all care to listen.”
“I will listen, my son.”
“Excellent!” Torg said, his face suddenly ablaze with joy. “But first, there is someone I’d like you to meet.”
79
IT WAS MIDSUMMER by the time Torg, Laylah, and Jhana reached the outskirts of Anna. The Simōōn had been lowered and would never be raised again, as far as Torg was concerned. Beneath the glory of a full moon, the Tugars, warriors, and ordinary citizens greeted their king and queen en masse. With them came tens of thousands of other desert dwellers, including Beydoos, Kurfs, and even the wily Kalliks. For good or bad, the Tent City had been opened to the world.
Torg greeted them all. Elu also came forth, and then—to Torg’s delight—Burly Boulogne, who had magically survived his fall off the dragon and found his way back to Anna. The Taikos sounded their arrival, and there was feasting for many days and nights. During this long celebration, Torg went from Tugar to Tugar and healed those who had been blinded during the battle with Tathagata. There was great joy.
For long stretches, Torg and Jhana sat alone on the soft sands and talked. Blessedly, his father seemed to have little memory of Vedana’s assault or of the centuries he had spent in the Realm of Undeath. At least, that was Jhana’s version of things. But Torg often saw pain in the squeezed crevices of his father’s now-lined face.
When he wasn’t with Jhana, Torg spent long, luscious moments with Laylah. They wandered among the dunes, making love whenever and wherever they could find the privacy—and necessary space—to do so. Their bond grew even stronger, if that were possible.
On the same night that Tugarian elders announced that plans for a great wedding were in the works, Laylah came to Torg and uttered two fateful words. The sorceress had said them before, but this time they filled Torg with joy.
“I’m pregnant.”
“Is it mine?”
She playfully slapped his face. “It’s yours, all right.”
“What should we name him?”
“Her,” she said.
Torg smiled. “What should we name her?”
Laylah giggled. “I’m just kidding . . . as if you didn’t know. It’s a boy. And I think we should name him—”
Torg pressed a thick finger against her lips.
“Shhhhh, my love. Not now. Let’s think about it . . . for a while. There’s no hurry.”
“Yes, beloved. No hurry.”
For the long-lived, such luxuries exist.
Torg and Laylah sat together on the crest of a dune and gazed at the moon. Warm desert breezes swept the hair from their brows.
Obhasa glowed playfully.
The Silver Sword lay on the sand, as disinterested as ever.
Then, when a star fell from the sky . . . and winked out . . . the sword also glowed.
Despite all this . . .
Life went on.
Every . . . where.
Every . . . place.
Every . . . time.
Nam icikicchasi? (Do you doubt it?)
Please . . .
Do not.
Fifty years later . . .
. . . A TALL BUT SLUMPED man stood amid a field of vegetables aligned in orderly rows. As dusk neared, late-summer storm clouds built over the mountains in the distance.
Rain would come soon. This pleased him.
The man noticed a weed growing between a pair of thriving tomato plants. He knelt down and plucked it from the ground, feeling guilty even as he did so.
From the farmhouse atop the hill, his wife called to him. Her alabaster eyes were blind, but she stumbled on the uneven ground less often than he.
“Darling,” she said, in her ancient voice. “Supper is ready.”
“Coming!” he shouted back. Then he whispered, “Just one more thing to do.” Rather than walk directly to the house, the man slipped down a slope and strode toward another patch of ground, this one untended.
Though that wasn’t entirely true.
For a second time the man knelt, and his calloused fingers excavated a hole in the dirt. He planted the weed, among many others.
When he stood it began to rain.
“You’ve got a chance,” the gardener said from high above. “I’m afraid that’s all I have to offer.”
He stood there a moment, a thin man with wet hair and warm bones.
Then he climbed up the slope toward the comforts of home.
So ends The Death Wizard Chronicles.
(Please continue reading for lots 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.
Abala (AH-buh-luh): Great horn made from the tusk of a mammoth.
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.
Akando (ah-KAHN-doh): Eldest brother of Takoda.
Akanittha (AHK-ah-NEE-tah): A being that is able to feed off the light of the sun. Means Highest Power in the ancient tongue.
Akasa Ocean (ah-KAH-sah): Largest ocean on Triken. Lies west of Dhutanga, Jivita, and Kincara.
Alābha-Abhinno (ah-LAH-buh-ahb-HIH-no): A highly ranked Warlish witch.
Ancient tongue: Ancient language now spoken by Triken’s most learned beings, as well as most Tugars.
Anna: Tent City of Tējo. Home to the Tugars.
Annusati (ah-noo-SAH-ti): Largest cathedral in Jivita.
Antaradhaayati, Sati (ahn-tuh-ROD-huh-YAH-tee, SAH-tee): Demonic spell that erases memory.
Aponi (ah-POH-nee): Biological daughter of Takoda. Younger sister of Magena.
Appam (ah-PAHM): Tugar warrior.
Archbishop Bernard: Highest-ranked Jivitan clergyman.
Arupa-Loka (ah-ROO-pah-LOH-kah): Home of ghosts, demons, and ghouls. Lies near northern border of the Gap of Gamana. Also called Ghost City.
Arusha (ah-ROO-shuh): Mare ridden by Queen Rajinii. Greatest of all Jivitan warhorses.
Asamāna (ah-sah-MAH-nah): Senasanan bride of Invictus.
Asava (ah-SAH-vah): Potent drink brewed by Stone-Eaters.
Asēkha (ah-SEEK-ah): Tugars of highest rank. There always are twenty, not including Death-Knowers. Also known as Viisati (The Twenty).
Assarohaa (AH-suh-ROW-huh): White horsemen of Jivita.
Asthenolith (a
h-STHEN-no-lith): Pool of magma in a large cavern beneath Mount Asubha.
Augustus Pontius (PON-chess): Newborn soldier who replaced Lucius as second-in-command of Mala’s army.
Avici (ah-VEE-chee): Largest city on Triken. Home to Invictus.
Avikkhepa (ah-vih-KAY-puh): King of Jivita during the war against Slag.
Aya (AH-yuh): Tugar warrior.
Badaalataa (BAD-ah-LAH-tuh): Carnivorous vines from the demon world.
Bakheng (bah-KENG): Central shrine of Dibbu-Loka.
Balak (BAH-luk): First wall of Nissaya.
Baldwin “Burly” Boulogne: Gillygaloo enchanter from Kincara.
Bard: Partner of Ugga and Jord, trappers who lived in the forest near the foothills of Mount Asubha.
Barranca (bah-RAHN-chuh): Rocky wasteland that partially encircles the Great Desert.
Bell: Measurement of time approximating three hours.
Beydoo (BAY-doo): Desert tribesmen loyal to Tugars.
Bhacca (BAH-cha): Chambermaid assigned to Laylah.
Bhasura (bah-SOOR-ah): One of the large tribes of the Mahaggata Mountains.
Bhayatupa (by-yah-TOO-pah): Most ancient and powerful of dragons. His scales are a deep crimson.
Bhojja (BOH-juh): Mother of all horses. Magical being of unknown origin or lifespan.
Black mountain wolves: Largest and most dangerous of all wolves. Allies of demons, witches, and Mogols.
Bonny: Female pirate from Duccarita.
Boulogne’s: Out-of-the-way tavern favored by Jivitan locals. Owned by Burly.
Broosha (BREW-shah): Female vampire from Arupa-Loka.
Bruugash (BREW-gash): Pabbajjan overlord.
Bunjako (boon-JUH-koh): Stone-Eater; son of Gulah, grandson of Slag.
Cariya River (chah-REE-yah): Largest river west of Mahaggata Mountains.
Catu (chah-TOO): Northernmost mountain on Triken.
Carūūl (kuh-ROOL): Magical ring given to Mala by Invictus.
Carūūldassana (kuh-ROOL-duh-suh-nuh): Bhayatupa’s lost love.
Cave monkeys: Small, nameless primates that live in the underworld beneath Asubha.