Blinded by Power: 5 (The Death Wizard Chronicles) (6 page)

WHINER THE NEWBORN was a whiner no longer. Now he was a killing machine, as full of pain, anger, and hunger as a ruined Daasa. Already he had eaten far more than his own weight, filling his burning belly with juicy flesh and crunchy bones. Killing and devouring consumed his primal mind, serving the purpose of temporarily distracting his awareness from the pain that enveloped his body like fire. Anything that gave him relief was preferable to the incessant agony, even if these acts guaranteed damnation.

Prey was everywhere, skittering about in a cacophony of screaming, sobbing, and moaning. Some fought hard, others ran hard. But Whiner and his brothers were relentless in their pursuit, smashing down doors, charging up stairs, finding prey in the cleverest of hiding places. No amount of begging made any difference. When the prey was cornered, they butchered and ate it. There were no thoughts of mercy. Mala had denied the newborns for too long for them to be denied any longer. It was time to feast until their bellies were bloated beyond what could be considered possible.

The newborns maniacally worked their way through the inner sanctums of Nissaya. They were too many for the Tugars and too strong for the black knights, which meant that the inhabitants and refugees were doomed. The fortress had changed from haven to holocaust.

Whiner didn’t care. He knew only two things: pain and hunger.

Mercy?

The concept was as foreign as salvation.

THE EXPLOSIVE collapse of Nagara killed more than a thousand newborns that had gathered near its base, crushing the golden monsters beneath its tumbling bulk. A sharp-edged shard of black granite as large as a longhouse bounced angrily toward Mala, causing him to grunt and then step aside.

When the dust finally settled, Mala stomped forward to investigate the residue of the catastrophe. In the dim light of early morning, it was difficult to get a clear view, but it was obvious to Mala that the escape route beneath the keep had been buried beneath titanic chunks of debris, eliminating any chance of quick pursuit. The clogged entrance of Hakam was child’s play compared to this. Even with two Kojins and dozens of Stone-Eaters at his disposal, it would take several days to clear a path. By then, whoever had made it into the catacombs would be far beyond their reach.

Mala found this annoying, but only for a short while. When the rising sun introduced yet another broiling morning, his spirits were lifted to new heights. Highlighted by the fall of Nagara, the destruction of the fortress was an extraordinary sight. At first Mala believed that body parts were strewn everywhere, but then he realized with a mischievous grin that what he had mistaken for body parts were in reality pieces of armor cast here and there. The flesh and bone that the armor had once contained were gone, dissolving in pools of acid and goo in the bloated stomachs of his newborn soldiers. The entire scene filled Mala with such glee he could barely contain himself.

With the Kojins, Stone-Eaters, and witches at his side, Mala began a street-by-street and building-by-building scouring of the city. The newborns charged furiously to and fro, searching for the few remaining survivors who somehow had hidden cleverly enough to avoid being discovered. Occasionally, someone would be dragged screaming into the streets to be stripped and devoured, prompting Mala to laugh and clap and the Kojins to squeal in approval.

But not all news was good. According to reports from his scouts,
The Torgon
’s body was nowhere to be found, and it was believed that fewer than ten score Tugars had perished, with the rest having escaped either underground or via rope ladders over the walls. Several thousand black knights were also believed to have fled with them. Most of the Mogols and wolves that had been assigned to patrol the plains outside the walls had been found dead. Upon hearing this, Mala experienced another surge of rage. The desert rats were proving to be extremely difficult to squash, which would make the conquest of Jivita less simple than he had hoped. Then again, the harder they fought, the sweeter would be his victory.

By noon, it was hot enough to grill goat meat on the black granite, yet the foul odors of putrefaction were far less intense than they should have been. The newborns’ hunger had been so magically insatiable, even the fallen monsters had been eaten. However, the Tugar corpses had not been devoured, their flesh too tough even for the metallic teeth of the newborns. Mala considered incinerating the dead Tugars with his trident, but that seemed too honorable an ending, so he ordered their corpses piled in an open courtyard and left to slowly rot.

By midafternoon, Mala and his entourage had explored less than a third of the massive city, but Mala already was comfortable that there were few survivors. Even if a small number of Nissayans still cowered in dark corners, what did it matter? The fortress was defeated. Mala chose to leave five score wild men to defend Nissaya, but now it was time to gather his troops outside the walls and assess his own losses.

Mala gave the surviving trolls another important job, ordering them to gather outside the entrance of Hakam with their golden hammers and batter apart the magical portico that had protected Mala and his minions from assault from above. Afterward, the trolls cast the horrid pieces of flesh and metal away from the foot of the gate, clearing even more room for the departing army. Meanwhile, wild men and Mogols had been hard at work reconstructing the drawbridge that spanned the moat between Ott and Balak. Appearance-wise, their work was crude, but at least the bridge now could bear considerable weight.

The thirty Duccaritans who had survived the battle turned out to be very good at counting. While Mala’s army funneled through the cleared entrance of Hakam, the pirates lined up a variety of different-sized pebbles to keep an accurate assessment. All told, only sixty thousand of the original one hundred and sixty thousand newborns still lived, as well as thirty thousand of the original forty thousand monsters, though the druids that remained with Mala were next to useless, wandering around with glazed expressions like dumb-asses.

Overall, Mala had not expected his losses to be so large, but considering that a sizable portion of the newborns had perished before the battle began, it wasn’t as bad as it sounded. He still commanded a force that was three times as numerous, and many times as powerful, as the one he expected to encounter at Jivita, especially if the reports from the White City he’d received were anywhere near accurate.

By the time his host again gathered on the plains, it was past midnight. To passersby, it might have seemed wasteful that Mala’s army wasn’t availing itself of the luxuries of the fortress it had so recently conquered. But as far as Mala was concerned, there would be comfort aplenty in Jivita. If his soldiers wanted beds, they could find them in the White City, after it had fallen.

The newborns bunched together like a swarm of glowing bees, eerily illuminating the plains for a league in all directions. The other monsters lingered off to the side, watching them almost distrustfully. They too had witnessed the newborns’ fury and had been intimidated by it.

But Mala was not afraid. He reveled in his might, raising the trident in his right hand while thrusting the dragon ring on his left hand toward the sky. Then he howled, the sound resembling the otherworldly cry of a snow giant on the peaks of Okkanti. The monsters snarled and barked in response.

When the cacophony lessened, Mala spoke in a voice as brutal as thunder. “We came to the black fortress to fight for the glory of King Invictus, and we depart as conquerors!”

The monsters roared again, the cumulative sound almost deafening. But Mala was louder still. “This is just the beginning! Jivita is next
 . . .
and after that, the rest of the world.”

The hysteria grew to a fever pitch, so much so that a few of the lesser among them—including several pirates, ghouls, and vampires—were trampled. But the newborns remained bunched together, as if reluctant to join the madness.

Mala had one more task to perform before it was time for a well-earned sleep. From the tines of Vikubbati, golden energy spewed skyward, massing in the firmament like a storm cloud made of fire. The newborns gazed upward, the metallic helms that had melted upon their faces masking their expressions. Then they began to shiver, as if chilled. Indeed, the night had grown frosty, at least when compared to the heat of the day, causing steam to ooze off their broad backs. But the glowing cloud was anything but cold. Slowly it descended upon the swarm, sparkling and crackling.

Mala laughed insanely, and as if in response to his mean-spirited mirth, the newborns began to shrink
 . . .
slowly at first, but then with surprising rapidity. They howled—not in triumph but in agony.

What remained on the Gray Plains was no longer a force of cannibalistic monsters. Instead, the golden soldiers lay in the trodden grass, their bloated stomachs pressing painfully against the inside of their armor. Moaning and sobbing replaced howling and snarling. Some begged for mercy that would never come. Others vomited up obscene chunks of meat before passing into unconsciousness. Most writhed pathetically, their minds vaguely aware—but aware, nonetheless—of the atrocities they had so recently committed.

This made Mala laugh all the louder.

AS THE BATTLE raged on the surface above Nissaya, something long asleep stirred below. For thirty thousand years, Ulaara the Black had lain hidden so deep beneath Nissaya that not even the knights of the fortress had discovered his hiding place. Now a strange and powerful magic—one he had never sensed or encountered before—had awakened him.

Ulaara knew nothing of what was occurring, other than that he sensed an epic battle. But it wasn’t dragon magic wreaking such havoc. Instead, it was a power of even greater strength. Finally, Ulaara’s curiosity overcame his fear of the specter of Bhayatupa, and he squirmed out of the lower depths through tunnels and passageways known to only a few. Even the most dangerous creatures of the underworld shied before him, as well they should. Bhayatupa aside, Ulaara was a formidable being. And he had grown weary of hiding.

Ulaara’s ancient ruse had been successful. After Bhayatupa had challenged him to a duel to the death more than thirty millennia ago, Ulaara had fled to Nirodha and hidden there for a few months, informing none of the other dragons of his true plans. From the beginning, his intention had been to sneak back through Mahaggata and enter the bowels of Nissaya, where not even Bhayatupa would be able to find him. Now as he slithered slowly toward the surface, Ulaara wondered if his crimson adversary still ruled the skies.

Ulaara intended to find out. And while he was at it, he also would investigate the origin of the new and mysterious force that had awakened him. Meanwhile, he heard—or sensed—faint tremors in the underground chambers above where he now stood. Human voices? Footsteps? He would see for himself.

THE WOODEN DOORS were slammed shut, the portcullis lowered, the boulder rolled and strapped into place. Whoever and whatever remained outside Nagara was on their own, including Torg and the remaining Tugars. This stunned Kusala. To the chieftain, it felt cowardly to flee in such a manner. It was in his nature to fight until the end, regardless of the circumstances. But now there was nothing left to be done. At least they weren’t trapped. The labyrinth of tunnels, passageways, and chambers beneath the great keep beckoned like freedom.

Madiraa rushed to her father’s side. Already the squires had removed the king’s armor, dressed him in black robes, and laid his shattered body on an elaborate wooden pyre at the base of the stone stairs that led to his throne. His long white hair was strewn gracefully upon a silk pillow, and his staff of
Maōi
was tucked in the crook of an arm.

Upon seeing Henepola this way, Madiraa again burst into tears. Though their relationship had been tempestuous, it was obvious she had loved her father desperately. She clambered upon the pyre and rested her head on the king’s broken chest, sobbing in near hysterics. Kusala knew that they had little time for grief. Mala was on their heels, his power so great that no barrier could withstand him.

“My queen,” said Kusala, for she truly was a queen now that her father had fallen. “We must flee to the catacombs, before the doors of Nagara are breached.”

“Leave me, then,” said Madiraa, her voice bitter. “The horrors occurring within my fortress have broken my will. I shall stay with Father and burn at his side. As queen, this is my command.”

Kusala approached within several paces. If he were to wrench her from this fey mood, he could not be kind. “These foolish words are
beneath
you,” he said in a harsh tone. “Do not dishonor your king and lord father in such a manner. Murder and mayhem await us. Nissaya deserves
vengeance
that only its queen can deliver. Arise from your sorrow and lead us to freedom. Or are you too pathetic to attempt such a feat? Your father would not have been.”

This filled Madiraa with sudden rage, and she leapt from the pyre with longsword in hand, her armor clanking as she struck the floor. Though she strode toward Kusala with death in her eyes, no Tugar made a move to defend the most powerful Asēkha in the world, knowing that it was not necessary. Despite the queen’s training and prowess, she was no match for Kusala, who remained motionless, arms at his sides, as if resigned to his fate.

Madiraa stopped directly in front of him and spat at his feet. Then she raised her sword so quickly that it cast sparks in the air. Yet Kusala still did not make any attempt to defend himself, showing that he trusted her even in her maddened state. This seemed to disarm the queen, and she did not attempt to strike him. Instead, her rage cooled, and she lowered the sword. “As always, your words ring true,” the queen said. “Flee, we must.”

Then she turned to Commander Palak, his black armor scarred in numerous places. “Lead us
 . . .
and go quickly! Indajaala, Kusala, and I will take up the rear.”

The senior commander nodded and then raced to a pair of black-iron doors already thrown open to reveal a steep stairwell. At least fifty score defenders followed Palak, as well as a dozen more conjurers and twenty score Tugars. Another ten score citizens and refugees also had found their way inside the keep, and they scrambled along with the knights and warriors, deeply relieved for the opportunity to avoid the horrors occurring outside Nagara’s dense shell.

The stairs were wide, enabling the evacuees—despite their large number—to pour quickly through the doorway. In a matter of moments, the only ones remaining above ground were Kusala, the queen, and the conjurer.

Madiraa said a prayer under her breath. Then she turned to Indajaala. “Light the pyre, loyal servant of the king. Father would wish it so.”

“Agreed,” Kusala said to the conjurer. Then he said to the queen: “But will you not take his staff before Henepola is set aflame?”

“No,” Madiraa said. “It shall burn with his body.”

“But the
Maōi
?”

The queen laughed ruefully. “Once the monsters gain control of Nissaya, they will have no lack of
Maōi
.”

“True enough,” Kusala said regretfully.

Indajaala came forward and bowed low. Then he placed the head of his staff on the pyre. The oil-coated fatwood caught fire and blazed hungrily; in response, the head of Henepola’s staff roared to life, spewing vast gobs of milky energy. The trio was forced to duck and run, barely making it inside the doorway that led to the catacombs. Kusala allowed himself one last look at the conflagration before slamming and barring the iron doors.

“Henepola goes down fighting!” Kusala said.

“I have never seen such a thing,” Indajaala said, “but Nissaya has never seen such a king.”

“He always favored Nagara,” Madiraa said. “Perhaps even in death he cannot bear the thought of its desecration and so wishes to destroy it along with his body.”

Then she turned and charged down the dark stairs with Indajaala and Kusala in pursuit. Above them Nagara rumbled—but the sensation was relatively faint, as if they were immersed in the calm waters beneath a raging storm.

Fist-sized balls of
Maōi
mounted on metal posts driven into the walls lighted the stairway on both sides. The conjurers were capable of extinguishing the
Maōi
from a distance, which would trap potential intruders in pitch darkness.

After one hundred steps they came upon a passageway that led to a large gallery lighted by chunks of
Maōi
placed in the hollowed stems of stalagmites. Within the chamber, the evacuees had gathered in murmuring groups. More rumbling could be heard above, but it felt even fainter. They already were more than ten fathoms beneath the base of the tower, yet this was just the barest beginning of the depths to which they would descend.

Commander Palak came forward, a pair of high-ranking knights flanking him. “My queen,” he said. “In which direction shall I lead? Mahaggata or Kolankold?”

As both the queen and commander knew, the journey to Mahaggata was the more difficult—especially for the enemy.

Madiraa spoke so that all could hear. “I believe that a great event has occurred above us that will lessen the likelihood of pursuit. But to ensure that we will not be overtaken, I choose Mahaggata.”

“Excellent,” Kusala said. “Once we emerge, this also provides a quicker path to Jivita.”

“For any who choose to go there,” Madiraa said.

“The Tugars will go, if no one else,” Kusala said.

Palak bowed to the queen. “Either way, there are dangers, especially when there are so many among us who have never before hazarded these dark halls. I will stay in front, if you command. But it would be better if you were to lead the way. Among us all, you are the most capable.”

“He speaks the truth,” Indajaala said to Madiraa. “Only Henepola knew these ways better than you.”

“I am honored by your confidence,” Madiraa said. “It is true that I have spent more time than was prudent exploring the spidery catacombs. I have always felt closer to God down here than above. Very well. Kusala and Indajaala, come with me. Commander Palak, I entrust you with the rear.”

Palak bowed. “It shall be so.”

At the far end of the gallery were several chambers containing foodstuffs, clothing, and empty skins stored for the purpose of evacuation. The stone floor was slippery and difficult enough for those wearing ordinary boots, much less sollerets. Regretfully, the black knights would have to leave their armor behind. But swords, daggers, bows, and arrows they would have aplenty.

While Madiraa, Indajaala, and the rest of the conjurers and black knights removed their armor, Kusala noticed the Senasanan countess standing off to the side. He walked over to her.

“My lady,” he said, “we meet again. I am pleased to see you here.”

She curtsied. “Though we have spent much time together, we were never properly introduced. You, of course, are Chieftain Kusala, known by many. My name is Dhītar, known by only a few.”

Kusala chuckled. “You honor me. But my guess is that you are being overly humble.”

A man stood nearby who appeared to be the countess’s companion, but he was dressed in the gaudy clothing of a Duccaritan pirate and appeared to be shielding his face.

Not in the mood for games, Kusala grasped his shoulder. “Name yourself,” Kusala commanded.

The man stammered. “I am Maynard Tew
 . . .
if it pleases you
 . . .
brave sir.” Then he added, as if to mollify his interrogator: “I am Mistress Dhītar’s prisoner.”

Now Kusala recognized him as the pirate Torg and Utu had interrogated on the battlement of Ott. He turned to Dhītar, his expression stern. “Explain.”

Now
she
was stammering. “He promised
 . . .
not to hurt anyone. To help us, instead. For mercy’s sake, I freed him from his bonds.”

For a moment Kusala considered taking the pirate’s head. He could do so with ease. But he owed Dhītar more than that. “
You
have yet to fail me,” Kusala said to her. “Do not fail me now. He is your responsibility. If you need aid in controlling him, be quick to call for it.”

Dhītar smiled and started to speak, but Tew beat her to it. “You won’t regret this, brave sir. I promise with all my heart.”

Kusala grunted and then stomped away, putting on one last show of severity. He passed Churikā, who recognized his subtle hand signal without even glancing his way. Tew would be watched by more than just Dhītar.

In full view of the others, Madiraa changed into ordinary clothing. Already lacking the helm that Kusala had torn off her head during the flight to Nagara, the queen removed the rest of her armor and then the sweat-stained padding beneath, revealing her gorgeous naked body without embarrassment.

As Kusala approached, he felt a surge between his legs.
What a beauty!
She rivals Churikā
. But the newly ascended queen was too deadened by the tragedy of Nissaya to be concerned with modesty. She threw on tight-fitting underclothes and a long tunic and then strapped on a rugged pair of boots.

Meanwhile, a Tugarian scout rushed over with a report. “The iron doors have not been challenged,” she said. “Whatever occurred above appears to have thwarted Mala.”

“Still, we have tarried long enough,” Madiraa said. “Bring food and skins. There is water a ways beyond.
Come!
”

The queen led them into another passageway that narrowed as it descended, creating a funneling effect that slowed their progress. But no one yet pursued them, reducing the need to hurry. This was good. The catacombs beneath Nagara were not designed for speed.

At the end of the steep passageway, they emerged into a gallery tenfold as large as the previous one.
Maōi
lighted this too, only this time the precious stones had been placed by nature, and they clung to the ceiling and glowed of their own will, revealing colorful drifts of flowstone that drooped down the walls like frozen waterfalls. The gallery was so lofty, Nagara could have stood within it.

Madiraa and the others trudged single file along a narrow ledge that wound precariously downward into the bowels of the bedrock. There were shouts and cries from the less stout among them, some of whom learned that a fear of heights can occur underground as well as above. But Madiraa’s steadfast will coerced them all. The queen strode so confidently that even the sure-footed Kusala struggled to keep up with her.

The ledge transformed into a natural stairway, descending even more steeply than before, and to make matters worse, the damp stone floor was slippery. The queen was forced to halt several times to allow her followers to catch up, and she tapped her boot impatiently each instance.