Torn By War: 4 (The Death Wizard Chronicles) (48 page)

“By the time they awaken, it will be too late. Many, many will perish . . . it will be horrible.”

“I have foreseen this,” Peta said. “Do you think it pleases me? But for Invictus to fall, the collapse of Nissaya must occur. You want to see an end to the sorcerer as much as I.”

“As much as Vedana, too. Speaking of your mother, why is she not here? I expected her to gloat.”

“She trusts you to perform your role. Besides, she’s not
comfortable
around you.”

“As if I can tolerate her presence,” Jord said. “She is a foul thing. Perhaps we should be more concerned with her demise than her grandson’s.”

“In regards to that, I will play no role,” Peta responded. “Once Invictus falls . . .
if
he falls . . . you can scheme against Vedana all you like—and also against the other, of whom we will not speak.”

“Your father will vanquish one, I the other.”

“It is foreseen. But again, I will play no role. My time will be finished.”

“So I’m supposed to stand here and do nothing?” Jord said. “I will be viewed as a traitor.”

“Pretend you were also sleeping,” Peta said.

“Torg will be suspicious. Utu, as well.”

“My father loves you. If he is suspicious, it will not be of your motives, only your methods.”

“Such wise words, for a child,” Jord said.

“Not a child,” Peta said. “I am ten thousand years old.”

“As I said . . . a child.”

“How old are you,
Vijjaadharaa
? I mean, beyond your stay on Triken.”

“Compared to the full length of my existence, even Vedana is a child,” Jord said. “I do not measure it in years. Count the eons, and then you will begin to understand.”

Boom!

Despite her antiquity, Jord was startled. “It has begun,” the Faerie said.

Boom
 . . .
boom!

“Father will wake soon,” the ghost-child said.

“But it will be too late to save Nissaya.”

“The fortress must fall. It is foreseen.”

“Many, many will perish,” Jord repeated.

“And if the fortress were to survive? They would not perish?” Peta said.

“You know what I mean.”

“And you know what
I
mean,” Peta said. “You and your kind have always known. Sometimes, though, what you do makes me sad.”

Boom!

“Emotion has nothing to do with it,” Jord said.

Boom! Boom! Boom!

Peta wiped away a single tear. Then she leapt back into the hole and vanished.

WHEN THE BOLT of energy from Mala’s trident had struck Torg, he had been cast into an unconscious pandemonium. During this second period of unconsciousness, he felt only darkness, as calm and quiet as a room without windows or doors—but also as insidious.

If not for the booming sounds, he might have slept exceptionally well. Was someone chopping wood or splitting stone? Torg considered getting up and ordering whomever it was to stop. But that seemed like so much effort. Better to press his hands against his ears and attempt to muffle the annoying noise.

“Grin and bear it,” his Vasi master would have chided.

But Dēsaka also said, “Anyone can be fooled once. But a warrior is never fooled twice.”

“I’ve fooled you many times,” Torg said proudly.

“Are you certain?”

The warrior-turned-Asēkha-turned-Death-Knower grunted and then sat up. Now it was midafternoon and as hot a day as Torg had ever experienced. Obhasa lay beside him, thrumming on the black stone as if attempting to wake him, but when Torg drew the Silver Sword from its scabbard and touched the blade, it was cold.

Then Jord was beside him.

“Where am I?” Torg said to her.

“Mala assaults the gate,” she said.

Torg rubbed his eyes.

“Why didn’t you wake us?”

“I was . . .
unable
.”

Torg grunted again. “You remind me of Dēsaka.” He stood groggily, leaned against Obhasa for support, and then staggered toward the low wall. He cautiously peered over the side—and gasped.

“Why didn’t you
wake
us?” he said again to Jord, but this time he was screaming.

Her pale cheeks flushed. “I could
not
.”

“You have doomed us!”

“It was unavoidable.”

“Get out of my way!” Torg shoved past her and went first to Utu, reaching down and slapping the snow giant across the face. There was no reaction, so he drew the Silver Sword from its scabbard and stuck its point into Utu’s cheek. The snow giant shrieked, sitting up so fast that Torg was cast aside. A thin trail of blood ran down Utu’s jaw and looped over his chin and down his neck.

“Where am I?” he screamed at Torg, his eyes bewildered.

“My words, exactly,” Torg said. “Listen to me, Yama-Utu. We are the victims of an extraordinary spell. The power of Invictus, working through Mala’s trident, has put us all in a trance. During that time, the Chain Man has formed a living portico over the gate of Hakam, and he and his monsters stand beneath it and assault the door.”

“I don’t understand . . .”

“The newborns. He has bound some of them together—
melted
them together—and formed a shield even greater than the one the Pabbajja created. We must wake the others. Doom is at hand!”

Torg went next to Kusala, lifting him by his jacket and shaking him. The chieftain came fully awake and then joined Torg in stirring the others. In a relatively short time, the battlement again was filled with active defenders. They stared down at a bizarre shield that pressed against Hakam above the gate, arching downward to the stone floor. Most of the other newborns and monsters remained outside this portico, but Mala, the three-headed giant, the trolls, and Stone-Eaters were nowhere to be seen. The pounding, however, betrayed their location.

“We must break it,” Torg shouted to Henepola. “Or the door will fall!”

Boulders were dumped over the side, but they bounced off the golden shield and tumbled away, crushing monsters that stood nearby but doing little damage to the portico. Utu heaved down the largest of the stones, but even they—cast with his great strength—could not dent the protective covering. Torg blasted it with Obhasa . . . one time, a dozen times, a hundred times, but the portico held.

“Do something!” Torg said to Jord.

“I have not the strength,” the Faerie said. “Not
that
kind of strength.”

The great bulwark shuddered. There was a cracking sound, a rending of stone. And then a screech—as if the black granite were crying for help.

Torg sighed, his face gone pale.

“We have two choices,” Torg said to Henepola. “We lower the ladders and fight them in the gap . . . or we wait for them inside the wall and fight them in the city. You are the king of Nissaya. This is your decision.”

Fiercely, Henepola gripped his staff. “We will wait for them inside the gate. But before we desert the battlement, we will wreak as much havoc as possible from above.”

Then the king went over to a wooden lever and yanked it, choking the tunneled entrance of Hakam with debris.

“That will buy us time, but we have twice learned not much,” Torg said. “Do what you will from above. I go now to the entrance to await the enemy.”

“I will join you,” Utu said urgently. Then he looked at Jord. “You must come, as well.”

“Of course,” said the Faerie, her green eyes ablaze.

AS TORG, JORD, and Utu raced down an interior stairway of Hakam, a sound as loud as an erupting volcano roared all around them. The defenders of the third bulwark were unleashing every armament that remained on the battlement, once again filling the gap with debris, fire, smoke, and steam.

“More monsters will die, but too few to make a difference,” Utu thought. “The princess was right when she said that Mala must fall for Nissaya to survive. And only I am capable of defeating him. Not even the Death-Knower wields that kind of power. But I must put on the ring at the last moment. Otherwise, my resolve will falter.”

Thousands of knights were already racing into the streets to protect the citizens and refugees who huddled in the bowels of the city. Several times during his stay at the fortress, Utu had walked among their masses, which included children and elderly. But there also were strong men and women, many of whom were armed. It was ironic that these people might form the final defense of the fortress. However, against the carnivorous monsters that came for them, they would be no match. Their deaths would be horrible, filling the air with screams that would haunt this mountain of stone for centuries. Though they were not of his kind, Utu pitied them—and held even greater anger at those who would perpetrate such a slaughter. The snow giant clung to these emotions with all his psychic strength. If he could imprint them deeply enough in his memory, perhaps they would linger after he placed the ring back on his finger.

Holding Obhasa in his left hand and the Silver Sword in his right, Torg stood next to Utu before the interior opening of the clogged entrance. The snow giant was amazed by the extent of the debris. It would take a dozen of his kind more than a day to clear such an avalanche of broken stone, but Utu could sense by the vibrations in the rubble that Mala’s monsters were proceeding far faster. The trolls and Stone-Eaters were especially adept at working with rock, and the Kojins were powerful and tireless. Occasionally, the mass of rubble rumbled and glowed. Utu believed it was during these times that Mala used the trident and the ring to blast away especially troublesome debris or perhaps one of the many portcullises.

Jord came beside Utu and Torg, but seemed to shy from the wizard’s gaze. Utu wasn’t sure what was going on, but he could guess: The white-haired woman had been in a position to help, but had not. Why? At this point, Utu didn’t care. For the past three decades, he had been obsessed with his brother’s kidnapping, so much so that it had changed whom and what he was. Now the culmination of his desires and aversions chewed its way toward him through ninety cubits of poisoned rubble.

“Stay close,” he said to Jord.

“Yes,” the Faerie responded.

King Henepola, Madiraa, Indajaala, and the conjurers joined them. Kusala, the Asēkhas, and seven thousand Tugars, minus two score who had perished on Ott, also approached. Soon the remainder of the black knights who had not already entered the city to protect the refugees came forth. In all, almost fifty thousand awaited Mala’s army. Though the Chain Man had managed to defeat the three bulwarks, he had killed few defenders in the process. Nissaya was prepared to go down fighting, to say the least.

For the rest of the afternoon they stood in the heat, waiting for the greatest evil of their time to make its appearance. Great supplies of water and wine were shuttled through the ranks to fend off dehydration. Just beyond the gate, there were few places of shade, and the sun beat down on them like a titanic cinder, baking their bodies and brains and soaking the heavy padding within their armor with sweat. But they didn’t care. They no longer were concerned with conserving energy or rations. One way or the other, the battle would end on this day. The heat only made them angrier.