Healed by Hope (17 page)

45

LAYLAH ALSO DREAMED. But hers were not so pleasant. She had swallowed a ball of fire, and it was burning her insides. She ran across the sands of the Great Desert and screamed for help, but all who witnessed her approach shielded their eyes and shied away, as if they too might burn if she came too near.

Laylah continued to run and eventually reached a river as broad and feisty as the Ogha. A part of her awareness knew that no such watercourse existed anywhere within Tējo, but here it was nonetheless. She fell upon her belly and crawled to the water’s edge, where she drank and drank. But no matter how much she consumed, the fire would not abate.

Finally, she cast herself into the roaring currents, but even that was not enough. Instead, the river went dry, and she lay at the bowed base of a wadi—and drank only dust.

When she screamed, there was no one to hear.

46

IN THE GREAT DESERT, the Tugars reigned supreme, and there was little to fear from any potential adversary. Nonetheless, a single male warrior was chosen to stand guard over the others as they slept. He was large, even by Tugarian standards, and resembled Torg more than any of the others.

Jord approached within five paces before he noticed her. At first the warrior was surprised and suspicious, but the Faerie’s smile caused him to relax.

“Is there something I can do for you, my lady?”

“Please call me Jord . . . and tell me your name.”

“I am honored to meet you, Jord. My name is Pumbhāva.”

“Of course it is.”

The Tugar arched an eyebrow. “Can you not sleep?”

Jord walked even closer, then dropped the cloak to the ground and swept her hair behind her shoulders, exposing her naked body to his wide blue eyes.

“You asked if there is something you can do for me. There is.”

Only once before in her long existence on Triken had Jord performed a sexual act: beneath the white pines with Torg the previous winter. Now she made love with a vengeance, testing the virile warrior to his limits. Afterward, she left him naked and exhausted in the sand and returned to the others. Of them all, only Burly was awake—and as she approached he smiled but did not speak. Jord lay down near Torg and stared at his broad back. She would have chosen him over all others, but the wizard belonged to someone else.

Jord sighed, smiled, and then slept the natural sleep of a living being. Never again would she experience the bliss of intercourse. Once would have to be enough.

47

THE MOON ROSE full above the Gray Plains, blazing magnificently in another clear sky. Elu sat cross-legged outside his small tent while Essīkka slept inside, satiated by yet another bout of lovemaking. Thousands of Tugars were spread out around a slew of campfires, finishing the remains of roasted antelope and drinking Tugarian nectar they had ensconced in Senasana. It was past midnight.

A Tugar approached and handed Elu a skin of nectar. He took a long drink and relaxed. Never in his life had he felt so content. In just a short time he had fallen deeply in love with the female black knight, and he intended to spend the rest of his life with her. If any of the surviving Nissayans objected, he would take her deep into Mahaggata and never look back.

As Elu stared at the full moon, a black speck streaked across it, no larger in his perspective than a blade of grass. Elu rubbed his eyes in disbelief and stared again, but whatever he had witnessed was already gone. He looked around to see if the Tugars had noticed anything, but none seemed to have reacted. Finally, Elu shrugged and decided it had just been his imagination. After several long sips of nectar, he plugged the skin and crawled into the tent beside Essīkka’s ebony body. She lay on her back atop a camel-hair blanket. Elu admired her full breasts and muscled belly and thighs. If he hadn’t drunk so much he would have mounted her again, so enamored was he of her beauty. Instead, he lay beside her and held her. Then he fell fast asleep.

Soon after, he dreamt of Ugga. The crossbreed was again a huge and powerful man, with a stomach even larger than his massive chest. Ugga smiled good-naturedly, as was his wont, and clapped Elu on the shoulder.

“Ya are not a little guy anymore,” Ugga said. “But I loves ya still.”

Elu wrapped his arms as far around the crossbreed’s torso as they would reach. “I love you too. Essīkka and I have missed you. Where have you been? I thought I’d never see you again.”

“I has to go somewheres,” the crossbreed said. “And I won’t be back. But I just wanted to say goodbye. Maybe we’ll meet again someday . . . in a better place than this.”

Elu wailed. “Don’t say goodbye! Come back to us. We’re marching with the Tugars to the Tent City. Don’t you want to see Torg and Laylah again? And Jord is with them too.”

“Sorry, little guy . . . errr, big guy . . . but it’s not da way it works.”

Elu collapsed to his knees and sobbed.

“Ahhh, don’t be sad,” Ugga said. “
I
isn’t sad!”

Then he turned and jogged into the darkness. Elu imagined he saw another large figure beside him . . . Bard?

Elu tried to stand and chase after them. But it was as if he were running in goo, and he found that he could not keep up. “Ugga! Bard! Don’t go . . .
pleaaaaase
 . . .”

Then Essīkka was shaking him. Elu sat up so fast that he caused the knight to yelp. “My god, what a nightmare you were having,” she said.

And then Podhana was lifting the tent flap and peering into its dark interior. “Are you all right?” the chieftain said. “You’ve woken up half the camp with all this screaming.”

“Sorry . . . sorry . . . we’re fine,” Elu said sheepishly. “I just had a bad dream. Well, not really so bad. Call it a sad dream.”

Podhana smiled knowingly. “Over the past few days my dreams have been sad, as well. So many . . . once precious to us . . . are no longer. I’m hoping that when I reach Anna, I will be able to sleep in peace. Perhaps the Tent City will have a similar effect on you.”

Elu smiled back. “It will be good to see Torg again. Being around him always makes me feel better.”

“Ema . . . Ema . . .”
the chieftain said, his voice now soft. “I desire to be with my king, as well.”

48

THE FINAL RIDE was a race against time. Jord galloped like a thing gone mad, leaving behind a cloud of dust and sand. Torg wondered how much more pain Laylah could tolerate before she simply gave out. For such an early stage of pregnancy, her stomach had bloated to absurd proportions. If he had not known better, Torg would have guessed that she was at least eight months pregnant, not just a few weeks.

It relieved Torg when he saw that the Simōōn had been lowered. Several thousand Tugars had gathered on the outskirts of Vimānal, lured there by the drums. As the jade mare thundered into the Tent City, a chorus of cheers, shouts, and whistles erupted.

Torg dismounted and carried Laylah within an open-air pavilion designed to hold large numbers for banquets and other special occasions.

The sorceress writhed in his arms, and her stomach thrummed and quivered.

Torg set her down upon a broad table and then backed away.

Soon after, Laylah went limp and appeared to sleep.

Asēkha-Aya, the senior Tugar in Anna since the departure of Rati, rushed forward to greet Torg. The two huge men grasped forearms.

“
Lord Torgon
, beyond hope you have returned to us . . . finally! Feasts have been prepared, as well as entertainment. We had hoped this to be a joyous occasion. But now I see that the queen is not well. Healers shall be summoned immediately, but you are the greatest of healers. Is there anything we can do if you cannot?”

Torg started to respond, but then he noticed a skinny child standing next to Laylah and reaching out to touch her. A woman rushed forward, shouting, “Nimm . . . no!”

The girl reacted obediently and backed away, then she turned and walked bravely over to Torg. “You knew Tāseti?” she said.

“Nimm, he is the king,” the woman said, but Torg waved her off.

Then he looked down at the girl. “I knew Tāseti well. She was a great warrior.” He reached down and gently took the girl’s tiny hand. “My name is Torg, and I too am Asēkha. You must be Nimm. Rati told me about you. I applaud you for your courage. Among us, you are a hero.”

“That’s what everyone says, but I don’t feel like one.” Then she gestured toward Laylah. “I know what’s wrong with the lady.”

“Nimm!” the woman shouted.

Torg signaled to Aya, and the woman was led away. Then he knelt in front of the girl and rested his huge hands on her shoulders. “Tell me.”

“The baby wants out.”

Burly came up beside Nimm. Though she was small, the enchanter was barely half her height. “Why do you say this?” he said in his peculiarly squeaky voice.

The girl’s response was chilling, more so because of the tone of her voice than the words themselves. “The baby isn’t nice.”

Nimm’s words heightened Torg’s anxiety, and he turned to Aya with a wild look in his eyes. “Postpone any entertainment. We must arrange
Thānam vejjakammassa
(a Place of Healing). When the full moon rises to its zenith, I will lay my hands upon the queen and see for myself what the baby is about.”

The Asēkha nodded and then rushed off, and soon the Taikos were thrumming again, issuing commands that were unmistakable to all. Within a bell, the Vasi masters and all the Tugars that had remained in Anna—warrior and non-warrior alike—had gathered in the heart of the Tent City. Each carried a
uttara
and Tugarian dagger.

A wooden litter was brought forward, and Torg placed Laylah upon it, though his brief touch caused her stomach to writhe. As if to make matters worse, the day had become unseasonably hot, almost rivaling the temperatures that Invictus’s magic had all too recently induced.

“
Majjhe Ghamme
(midsummer) has come early to Tējo,” Gutta said to Torg. “It’s as if the sorcerer still lives.”

“A part of him does,” Torg said.

They paused briefly to eat a light meal, but by late afternoon they were prepared to depart. Torg led the way into the desert, followed by fifty Vasi masters, fifty score warriors, and ten times that many others. Aya and Gutta carried the litter upon which Laylah was strapped. Burly, Nimm, and Ura also joined the caravan, along with the Faerie, now incarnated as Jord. The noble ones came too, though they bore no weapons.

The large company marched northward out of Vimānal on foot and then veered eastward, entering a broad area of hardpan littered with rocks that the sun had long since baked brown and the wind had long since polished. Here the temperatures grew even hotter, but Torg strode resolutely forward, ignoring a jackrabbit that raced past him just a stone’s throw away. Torg used Obhasa like a walking stick, and wherever he poked its tail into the ground, a puff of smoke erupted from the sand.

Every fifth Tugar carried a Taiko that was held in place by shoulder straps woven from camel hair. The drums formed a rhythmic harmony every bit as pervasive as the humming of druids. Under ordinary circumstances, Torg would have found this to be hypnotic and seductive, but now he seemed unable to relax. The long march to the fossil dune was a torment, not a joy.

While the sun still was in the sky, Laylah remained silent and motionless. The baby in her belly made few protests, as long as no one physically touched her. But when the sun set at their backs and the full moon rose before them in a clear, star-speckled sky, Laylah began to keen.

Torg quickened his pace. The dune, he knew, was still at least three leagues distant.

Eventually, some of the physically weaker of their caravan began to lag behind, including most of the noble ones, though Torg noticed that Dammawansha was keeping up admirably well. Torg had not even had the time to greet the High Monk, nor to speak to him about the horrendous torture and eventual enlightenment of Sister Tathagata. Any and all such conversations would have to wait until Laylah was made well again. She had suffered far too much for one lifetime. He would do everything in his power to heal her, above and beyond even the welfare of the child she bore.

The moon provided an enormous splash of illumination. Torg saw Mudu carrying Burly on one shoulder and Nimm on the other. The enchanter’s expression was difficult to read, but the little girl’s face was grim. Ura followed close behind, her body slathered in sweat. Torg doubted the woman could keep up this pace much longer. Then he saw another master sweep behind Ura and fling her over his shoulder. Torg twitched his left index finger, signaling his approval.

Inexplicably, Jord was nowhere to be seen. The Faerie had started out with the caravan but now seemed to have disappeared into the throng. Torg gave this some thought but then shrugged. There was nothing he could do. She would reappear when she chose, and not before.

The song of the drums intensified.

Obhasa thrummed in Torg’s right hand.

The Silver Sword, strapped to Torg’s back, remained cold.

Thousands of
uttaras
and daggers glowed blue in the moonlight, as if dipped in oil and set aflame.

During all this, Laylah continued to keen. It smote Torg’s heart, but not his resolve.

The hardpan gave way to an area of softer sand laced with a seemingly endless arrangement of linear dunes, each set about one hundred paces apart and extending north to south as far as the eye could see. At first the dunes stood barely as tall as a Tugar, but each successive one was a few spans higher than the previous one. Torg cut directly across the series of ridges, which were wind-compacted at the base but loose and slippery at the top.

The Tugars had no problem with this, but the few noble ones who had maintained the pace to this point—including Dammawansha—now fell far back. Nimm, Ura, and Burly only kept up because they were being carried.

As the dunes became taller, they also became more widely interspersed. Now each dune was at least fifty cubits tall and difficult even for the Tugars to traverse. Finally they crossed over the largest dune they had yet encountered, easily one hundred and fifty cubits tall. Beyond lay a velvety blanket of pure white sand.

Torg stopped for a moment and stared. About a league distant stood their destination: a fossil dune as ancient as a mountain and at least seven hundred cubits tall, which was nearly twice the height and age of the dune upon which Torg had first achieved
Sammaasamaadhi
almost a millennium ago.

Shortly before midnight, Torg and the leading edge of the caravan arrived at the dune. Torg helped the two Asēkhas carry the litter up the steep incline, though it was difficult work even for three such powerful men. When they reached the top, Torg lifted Laylah off the litter and laid her down on the dune as quickly as possible. The knife-like crest ran beneath her spine, while her arms and legs draped over each side.

Laylah screamed when she was touched but went still when Torg backed away. Her eyes squinted against the brightness of the moon, which loomed over the dune so close that Torg felt he could reach up and touch it with his hand.

By now, the rest of the Tugars and Vasi masters had arrived, and they scrambled up the dune, assuming positions along various points of the incline like trees clinging to the side of a steep mountain. Half of the Tugars crossed over the crest on the far side of the dune. Then they looked up at Torg and Laylah, their deep-blue eyes reflecting the moonlight.

Aya and Gutta stood on each side of Laylah, about two paces below where she lay. Still carrying Nimm on his shoulders, Mudu came up next to Aya. Another Vasi master, with Ura on his back, crossed over and stood next to Gutta. Torg did not protest. The girl and the woman already had played large roles in the events that had transpired. It appeared they would continue to do so.

Torg felt something tugging at his breeches, and he looked down to see Burly standing at his feet. The enchanter appeared almost frantic. “Something bad is about to happen,” he said. “I can sense it like the approach of a storm. Do you not feel the same?”

“We will create
Thānam Vejjakammassa
,” Torg said. “No harm can come to her once that is done.”

“Are you so certain?”

“I am certain of nothing.”

Just as Torg was about to begin the ceremony, he heard huffing and puffing from far below. Dammawansha had finally arrived and was working his way up the side of the fossil dune. “Wait,
Torgon
! Do not start yet. Allow me to join you.”

A pair of Tugars trotted down and helped the High Monk up the last few difficult paces. “Your presence honors this occasion,” Torg said. “But Burly the enchanter senses danger. Perhaps it would be best if you waited below.”

“What’s the worst thing that could happen to me?”

Torg managed a chuckle. “Very well. But once the powers are unleashed, do not touch my flesh. That truly would be dangerous.”

“As you say, lord,” the High Monk replied.

Now it was midnight, and the moon was directly overhead. Torg raised his arms and began the ceremony. When he spoke in the ancient tongue, his voice could be heard clearly by all.

“
Nandamanto tarunabhavam ca balam, koci vyādhino cinteti
? (Enjoying youth and strength, who thinks of illness?)”

“
Kevala viññū
! (Only the wise!)” the Tugars responded.

“(Illness strikes like random bolts of lightning, caring naught for our aversions. Do you doubt it?)”

“(We cannot doubt what we know as truth.)”

“(The mind heals the body, but what heals the mind?)”

“(Awareness heals the mind.)”

“(Tugars, is there awareness for you?)”

“Ema!
Ema!”

“(Tell me what you know.)”

“(Death follows life.)”

“
Puna c’aparam
(And again something else?)”

“
Maranam jivitam anugacchati
! (Life follows death.)”

Then in the common tongue, Torg said, “One day the queen will die. But not this day. Tugars, will you help me heal your queen?”

“Ema!
Ema!”

Torg held Obhasa aloft and let out an ear-piercing shriek. A bolt of blue-green energy crackled skyward, as if determined to cleave the moon.

“Jiivitam maranam anugacchati!”
Torg shouted, his voice booming like a drum.
“Maranam jivitam anugacchati!”
Then he flipped Obhasa around and drove its rounded head into the crest of the dune between Laylah’s legs. At the same moment, every Tugar stabbed his or her
uttara
and dagger into the soft sand. An explosion of energy surged from the ivory staff into the titanic dune, spewing rivers of Death Energy along the surface of the sand like a network of arteries and veins. The blue-green energy spiraled to each Tugarian blade and set it aglow, before racing back to Obhasa and leaping into the ivory shaft.

In response the fossil dune lit up, resembling a volcano spewing rivulets of lava down its side.

The night became like day.

In unison, the Tugars withdrew their blades, now magically imbued with Death Energy, and pointed them at the moon. Bolts of power leapt into the air and fanned out like fireworks, crashing into each other and then binding together. In a short time, a dome of protective magic encased the dune.

Though her eyes remained tightly closed, Laylah screamed and wailed. As if gravity were losing its grip on her body, she began to levitate, rising above the crest of the dune to the level of Torg’s chest. Sparkling magic swirled around her, as palpable as a dust-filled whirlwind.

Torg stepped between her legs, rested Obhasa against his chest, and then reached forward and laid both of his hands on Laylah’s bulging stomach. She let out a shriek that tore through the air with horrendous force, causing Nimm and Ura to cry out in pain and press their hands against their ears.

“Nooooo,” Laylah screamed, arching her back absurdly. “No . . . nooo . . .
Nooo!
”