Torn By War: 4 (The Death Wizard Chronicles) (45 page)

WHEN THE FIRE fell from the sky, Whiner—who until that moment had been lying visor-down in the grass—arched his back and howled. In response to Mala’s magic, the newborn’s golden armor, sword, and scabbard first melted and then fused with his flesh, creating a level of agony beyond the power to endure.

Like Lucius and Bonny, Whiner was “of the Daasa.”

The same was true of all the newborn golden soldiers, of which more than one hundred thousand still lived. Each transformed into a carnivorous monster far stronger than the greatest of the black knights, their flesh now metallic and impervious. Mala had tortured and starved them for a reason. He wanted them to be
hungry
.

When he called, they came.

A swarming, glowing blur of fury.

Within the walls of Nissaya lurked the one thing the transformed newborns craved most . . .

Flesh.

BHAYATUPA SPRANG from the rooftop of Uccheda, consumed by the wildness of freedom. A spirited wind blew toward the northwest, which was exactly where the great dragon planned to go. He would hide from Invictus somewhere in Nirodha, where he would feast on mammoths and fat white bears. Surely in the frozen wastes of the far north, the chain that constricted his neck would lose its fire, and he could eventually find a way to pry it off his scales. He was done fighting, for now. Survival was his only concern—even if it meant giving up his quest to parley with the Death-Knower.

But Bhayatupa was no more than a half-mile from the rooftop when the chain glowed red-hot, searing through his scales into the tender flesh beneath. Without even realizing it, he plummeted from the sky and smote the ground, his fall cushioned only by a blanket of wildflowers. Colorful petals blew out in all directions, fluttering in the breeze. Bhayatupa lay motionless, smoke oozing from his nostrils and ears.

Somehow he retained consciousness, though he could not seem to open his eyes. Or maybe they were open, and he was blind. Eventually, he heard the distinct sounds of a dracool’s leathery wings and then soft footsteps.

“You are
interesting
, Bhayatupa . . . I must give you that. But you are not my match.”

Bhayatupa finally managed to open his eyes just enough to see the sorcerer standing a few paces from the end of his snout. When Bhayatupa spoke, it hurt to move his jaws. His baritone voice quivered like a coward’s. “How long . . . have you known?”

Invictus threw back his head and laughed. “From the beginning, of course!”

Bhayatupa groaned. “Was I that . . . transparent?”

“Not at all. As an actor, you were brilliant. After all, you fooled even my grandmother. But I knew something you did not.”

Bhayatupa’s eyes opened slightly wider. “What . . . might that be?”

“Why, only a being of supreme intelligence would be able to tolerate the pain caused by the chain I placed around your neck. From the very beginning, a mindless creature would have writhed and screamed without cessation. Your ancient strength betrayed you.”

“But you played along . . .”

“Of course.”

Bhayatupa sighed. “What . . . now?”

“Ahhh, a good question. Well, it has become obvious to me that you and my grandmother are . . . how would you say? . . . allies of sorts. Is that not so?”

“It is not so.”

“Ha! Don’t think me such a fool. I’ve seen you together . . . and I know that Vedana schemes against me. Tell me her plans.”

“I know naught. Nor do I care.”

“Dear dragon, I can increase the heat of the chain around your neck anytime I desire. Do not insult me again.”

“All right . . . I do know her plans. Or at least what she wanted me to know. But I will not tell you.”

The sorcerer sneered. “With very little effort, I could have you
begging
to tell me.”

Bhayatupa managed to raise his head a few spans off the ground. “I do not doubt it. Still, I will resist with the strength I have left.”

“Which will not be enough.”

Bhayatupa’s eyes came fully open. “Except for one thing . . . there is something about great dragons that even you don’t know.”

“Ahhh?” said Invictus, his expression curious. “Please tell me.”

“I have the ability to end my own life, at the time of my choosing.”

The sorcerer appeared startled. “I would stop you.”

“No. You can cause me pain, of that there is no doubt. But you could not stop me from killing myself. I can do it in less than a heartbeat.”

“You’re bluffing.”

“No . . .”

“You wouldn’t. You
love
yourself too much.”“As your prisoner, I would not
be
myself.”

“Hmmm . . . an
interesting
quandary. What if I were to tell you that I don’t really care what grandmother is planning? That she cannot possibly harm me. That I
like
not knowing. It creates excitement that is otherwise lacking.”

“I would tell you that I’m not even sure that she told me the truth. For all I know, her real plans are entirely different.”

“Knowing Grandmother as I do, that would be my guess,” Invictus said. “Which means, dear dragon, that I don’t
care
whether you end your life or not.”

“Oh . . . but you do.”

“Why might that be?”

“You enjoy the grand stage. It’s one of the few things that still
interests
you. And what could be grander than having
Mahaasupanna
at your side when you finally vanquish your enemies? But you were right about one thing, at least. I
do
love myself—and I do not wish to die.”

Invictus sat down cross-legged in the grass, as if he were having a chat with a friendly acquaintance. “Do as I say . . . and I’ll allow you to live. Do as I say . . . and I might do more than that. The Death-Knower isn’t the only one with the secret to eternal life. I know many secrets, and you’ll like mine far better than his. My powers could keep you alive for as long as you desire.”

“Even if what you say is true, it would come with a catch. I would forever be your slave.”

“Partner, Bhayatupa . . . you would be my
partner
.”

“And Mala?”

“He has been loyal . . . while you have not. If you wish to outrank him, you would have to earn back my trust.”

“I could not take orders from Mala.”

“Let me show you what you can and cannot do,” Invictus said.

The pain flared again. Bhayatupa arched his back and howled, spewing crimson flames into the sky. Just as suddenly the agony ceased, replaced by intense relief that surged through his sinews, creating a sense of pleasure rivaling an orgasm. The chain glowed again, but this time gloriously and even sensually. For a miraculous moment, Bhayatupa was filled with the joy of youth. Yet his mind saw far, and he understood even more deeply the scope of Invictus’ power—which was so strong that even death could not withstand it. Bhayatupa panted with desire. When the epiphany came to a regretful end, he moaned with aversion.

“Do you see?”

Bhayatupa did see. And he was stunned. But even then, he did not permit himself to yield. “No matter what glories you provided, I could not take orders from Mala.”

“Ha! The stubbornness. Very well, then . . . I offer you a deal: Do as I say . . . when I say . . . and I will not harm you further. And when the wars are over—and it won’t be long now—I will show you the true path to eternal life. But if you attempt to betray me again, or to flee, I will not be merciful.”

“And Vedana’s plan?”

“Do you think it will work?”

“I never did. But I believed it might buy me some time.”

“
Marvelous
! I
love
surprises. Don’t tell me more. When her plan fails—as it will—we can laugh together.”

“At Vedana’s expense?”

“Of course.”

Bhayatupa grunted.

“You still don’t trust me,” Invictus said, with an exaggerated pout.

“No . . .”

“Hmmmm . . . what can I do to persuade you? Wait . . . how’s this?”

The sorcerer spun around and gestured to the dracool. “Iriz! Come here.”

“My liege?” the dracool said.

“Come
here
.”

“I don’t understand.”

“Do you disobey me?”

“My liege! I would never . . .”

“Then . . .
come here
.”

The dracool waddled forward, her eyes darting to-and-fro. When she came within ten paces of Invictus, she stopped again. “Is this close enough, my liege? I fear the dragon.”

“Yes,” Invictus said. Then he raised his hand and released a blob of golden energy that swept around the beast, engulfing and withering first her wings and then her lower legs. Iriz cried out.

“Mother . . . save me!” the dracool screamed.

“You see?” the sorcerer said. “This is what I typically do to those who betray me. The dracool has long been a pawn of my grandmother’s. Dear dragon, does this not prove my love for you? I give you, and no other, a chance at redemption.”

Horrified, Iriz wriggled helplessly on the ground.

Bhayatupa sat up on his haunches and smiled his dragon smile. “I’m hungry.”

“Be my guest.”

The dracool tasted like chicken.

As always.

“THE MYSTERY IS revealed,” Torg shouted to all who stood near. “The newborns have changed—and they come for us.”

“They are of the Daasa,” Jord said, her voice disturbingly monotone.

“I don’t understand, lord,” Kusala shouted above the ever-rising clamor. “What does this mean?”

“The newborns are transformed into something far deadlier that we could have imagined,” Torg said. “And they are more than five thousand score.”

“And very hungry,” Henepola said, as if realizing for the first time the direness of the situation.

As the crescent moon plunged out of sight in the west, the transformed newborns broke from the ringlet and stormed toward the broken entrance of Balak. The defenders loosed their bows and launched missiles from trebuchets, but these weapons had little effect on the newborns, who—in addition to having grown almost as large as trolls—now had flesh of magical armor that glowed as fiercely as Mala’s chain.

“So many . . .” Torg said, but this time in a whisper no one heard.

“They still cannot cross the moat,” the king said. “If anything, it is even more dangerous now than before. See how the spikes glow.”

“Regardless, we need to prepare oil and fire,” Torg said. “And the great door of Hakam should begin to be lowered. You should delay no longer.”

“Agreed!” Henepola said. “Commander Palak, give the orders.”

Vats of oil, clear as spring water but slippery as ice, were dumped over the side in front of the gate, forming a slick but invisible coating on Ott’s exterior. Torg turned his focus to Mala. The Chain Man was aglow, and the Kojins and other monsters surrounding him were agitated, to say the least. Something was about to happen that sent chills up Torg’s spine, but he knew naught what to do but wait and watch.

“What is their plan?” he said to Jord.

“They are of the Daasa,” she said yet again. “They do not fear pain or death. They are already in pain, and death would bring relief . . .”

The newborns poured through the entrance of the first bulwark like a flood of phosphorescence. But instead of funneling along the narrow walkway of Balak’s interior, they plunged straight forward, heedless of what awaited them. The leaders spilled into the moat as if intent on committing suicide, striking the glowing spikes with enough force to pierce their armored hides and become impaled. Hundreds, then thousands followed, leaping onto the backs of the others and scrambling over and through the razor-sharp spines. In just a few moments at least ten thousand were skewered by the weight of the others pressing at their backs, but their deaths were not in vain. A gruesome bridge of metal, gore, and sinew slowly crept across the moat. At two bells before dawn, the first of the newborns made it across.

The moat was breached.

The defenders dumped more oil over the side. They also dropped granite boulders, sacks of broken glass, and clay canisters of quicklime. No ordinary army could have withstood such a barrage. The walkway would have been too slippery for sollerets or boots, and the debris and poisons, cast from such a height, would have crushed, singed, or sickened anyone at the base of the bulwark. But the sheer mass of the newborns propelled them forward, and to the horror of the defenders, the bridge reached the base of the wall and became a living ladder, creeping up the side of Ott like an army of troll-sized ants. The slippery oil slowed the newborns’ progress, but their enormous numbers overcame the hindrance. In a relatively short time, they were halfway up the side of the bulwark, despite a relentless barrage from above.

“Step back! Step back!” Torg said. Then he leaned over a crenel and touched the slick granite with the head of Obhasa.

“
Aggi
!” he cried. Blue-green fire burst from the head of the staff, setting the oil aflame. There was a
poof
and a clap of thunder, and then a huge portion of Ott’s exterior became coated with fire. The nearest of the newborns were engulfed and fell backward, tumbling into the moat. Visors lowered, the defenders peered over the edge and cheered.

“
Torgon
!
Torgon
!”

Torg knew it was far too soon for celebration, but even he was tempted to linger and watch the result of the conflagration, leaving himself exposed a moment too long. A trio of golden beams leapt up from below, unleashed from Vikubbati’s tines. As Torg was knocked off his feet, he lost his grip on Obhasa, which clattered onto the wall walk. If not for Kusala, Torg might have been thrown all the way across the battlement and off the other side, but the chieftain sprang mightily and snared Torg’s ankles, dropping him hard on the black granite.

Torg tried to sit up, but dizziness overcame him.

Then darkness.

KUSALA CAUGHT THE back of the wizard’s head and laid it down gently. It was the first time the chieftain had ever seen his lord bested so convincingly. The flesh of his own face still burned from the force of Mala’s attack, yet the chieftain had been standing several paces away from the direct strike. Kusala had never felt such power. The Chain Man was far greater than he had been at Dibbu-Loka or in the mountains west of Kamupadana. The trident was a thing of magic beyond the Asēkha’s comprehension.

Utu knelt beside Torg.

“How badly is he hurt?” the snow giant said to Kusala.

“You tell
me.
”

Jord appeared and placed her delicate hand on Torg’s chest. “The wizard is strong,” she said. “But Mala’s magic is stronger. An unseen battle rages within Torg’s flesh.”

Kusala started to respond, but then Churikā was behind him, waving her arms in distress.

“Chieftain! The fire wanes, and the newborns mass again. Soon they will breach the battlement.”

Kusala turned back to Utu and Jord. “Can one of you awaken him? Can you
heal
him?”

“We will try,” Jord said.

Reluctantly, the chieftain left Torg and raced back to the parapet. As Churikā had reported, the fire was nearly burned out, and the supplies of oil and debris were depleted. Kusala guessed that another ten thousand newborns had perished in the fires, but at least four thousand score still lived. Once again, they were scrambling up the wall, one on top of the other, in three separate piles of tangled fury.

Far below, Mala and the other monsters massed in front of Ott’s gate. Trolls were there, and Kojins, and the remaining three-headed giant. The first thunderous boom from the giant’s tree-sized hammer shook the battlement, enraging the newborns further. Kusala realized that only the Tugars could prevent a slaughter. Kusala pushed through a mob of confusion until he found Henepola, who was poised directly over the gate.

“You must retreat to Hakam!” Kusala said.

“I will not leave my people,” the king snapped back.

“Not just you!” Kusala screamed. “All but Utu and the Tugars must flee. Your knights cannot stand against these monsters. Hakam will provide better protection. Leave the newborns to the Tugars.”

“Do you believe us so craven?”

“Kusala speaks the truth,” said Madiraa, who stood at her father’s side. “
You
are capable of facing these beasts, but the rest of the black knights will be outmatched. Order the retreat to Hakam . . . while we still have time to rush beneath the closing door. And come with us, so that we might have your leadership a while longer.”

At first Henepola was furious. Then his expression softened. Though he cared little for his own welfare, he still loved his people.

“Very well,” he said to Kusala. “The door will take until dawn to fully close, but Ott should hold at least until then. Regardless, ladders will remain lowered until every Tugar is safely on the battlement of Hakam.”

“Agreed,” Kusala said. “Go!”

As Henepola and the black knights began their retreat down the stairways that lined Ott’s interior, Kusala ordered a dozen Tugars to encircle Torg and Utu. Then he returned to the parapet. A pounding sound as loud as an earthquake shook the bulwark, causing the black granite to quiver. The three-headed giant had struck again, and Kusala peered over the side and watched as it swung the tree-sized hammer a third time. Ott shuddered, but the gate—six cubits thick—held firm.

Kusala raced back to Utu and Jord, pushing between the Tugars. “Any progress?”

“His body is motionless, but his mind writhes within a nightmare,” Jord said.

“We’ll need him—
soon
! Can’t you do something?”

The snow giant shook his head. “When he wakes, he wakes.”

Churikā was behind him again. “Chieftain . . . they
come
!”

Kusala growled. “Take him, then,” he said to the Tugars who guarded the wizard. “Carry him to the battlement of Hakam.”

“I will go with him,” Jord said.

“And you?” the chieftain said to Utu.

“Yes?”

“We need you to help us
fight
!”

“I think not.”

Even as they spoke, the first of the newborns fought past the defenders and climbed over the parapet.

THOUGH THE WORLD around Torg was filled with bedlam, it did not compare to that which raged inside his own head. The blasts of energy from Mala’s trident had done more than just knock him backward, they had cast him into a deep but noisy unconsciousness that resembled a storm laced with lightning and thunder. The Chain Man’s magic, imbued with the might of Invictus, swirled through his flesh, attempting to disintegrate it from the inside out. No one who defended the fortress—except perhaps Utu and Jord—could have survived the assault. Even Henepola or Kusala would have perished from a direct strike.

But Torg’s flesh was beyond a conjurer’s, beyond even a Tugar’s. He was a Death-Knower, the greatest to ever live, and it was enough. Bit by bit, he directed his own magic to consume the intruding power. Eventually his mind calmed, and soon after he began to hear voices.

“Give me the ring. I will protect it with my life and return it to you as soon as you request it of me.”

“I will
not
.”

As the final shreds of Mala’s assault were incinerated, Torg managed to sit up.

“You must . . .” His voice sounded weak. He took a deep breath and then said, more steadily: “You
know
that you must.”

Utu stood and towered over Torg, who remained seated on the hard stone. But before either said more, an angry beast—huge and golden—leapt upon the snow giant’s back. Utu shrugged and cast the thing aside, where it crashed onto the hard stone. At once several dozen Tugars attacked, hacking and stabbing at it. Yet even the magnificent Tugarian blades could not kill it. Golden armor, extremely strong but surprisingly pliable, protected the beast like metallic skin. Only a slit that revealed the eyes exposed any hint of weakness. And when Kusala stepped forward, turned his
uttara
on its side, and drove the blade through the slit, the newborn collapsed.

Still, it was just one death. At least eighty thousand remained alive.

Another booming sound shook the bulwark. More newborns surmounted the battlement. The Tugars were hard-pressed.

“Mala and the giant assault the gate,” Kusala shouted to Torg.

Torg regained his feet. He held the Silver Sword in his right hand and Obhasa in his left.

“Henepola?” he said to the chieftain.

“The king, his conjurers, and the black knights have already begun a retreat to Hakam. The great door lowers, even as we speak.”